East & West
by Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker
Summary: When her father leaves his job as a religious studies professor to work in the planned community of Milton, Margaret is certain she won't like anything about her new home. She won't like the cold winters or the reliance on new technology. She certainly won't like the brusque, proud businessman who keeps showing up wherever she goes. Modern Adaptation.
1. Stern and Iron

It's a modern take on N & S, but I do want to keep a little of that period feeling—new wallpaper on an old house, so to speak :) And much as Gaskell did, I entrust my story to the kindness of the reader.

* * *

**East & West**

* * *

Chapter One: Stern and Iron

"_But the future must be met, however stern and iron it be"_

* * *

The first thing Margaret Hale did when the plane touched down that morning was to turn on her phone and check for new emails. She was expecting something from Edith—the time-difference now that her cousin was on her honeymoon in Hawaii meant that Skype chats or phone calls were hardly to be expected; she wouldn't put it past Edith to forget all about that and call her in the middle of the night—and as the plane found its gate she eagerly started reading.

_What was your father thinking, taking you all so far from home? Our place in Hollywood is plenty large enough for you and then some. I'm sure he would have been able to find a job—I know how much pride he has in SoCal, but to take you all across the country…maybe it's just because I'm in paradise now, but I can't imagine winters there. You're going to freeze! XOX Edith_

She had to admit it was strange and sudden. Her father had confided in her first, that all the University system's religious studies departments were being combined into one program. He had chosen to leave rather than to support such a decision, or to displace another professor at the center's hub location. And so they themselves had been displaced.

Margaret twisted in her seat, stretching her arms, trying to get the soreness out of her shoulders from sleeping upright all night. "Tell me again about the city, father."

"Milton," Mr. Hale said, his voice habitually taking on an instructing tone, "is the planned community that my old friend Mr. Bell had a hand in developing. From what he'd told me about the city, I imagine in some ways it's much like the University—people live and work and study in the same place. But instead of green lawns and lecture halls we will find businesses and companies conveniently near their employees and customers. It's not the first venture of its kind, but Milton is certainly the largest."

Despite how she tried to approach this change fairly, Margaret was not disposed to like Milton. Even the name was like a discordant sound—she was used to names that evoked nature, plants or the sea. Milton may as well be another world. She turned to her mother, who was fanning at her face with the in-flight magazine. At least her feelings had an ally in her mother. In the seat beside her, Dixon—the world's greatest PA—rummaged in her purse for a bottle of water.

Margaret took the list of potential long-term leases from her father, anticipating his relief at having his daughter taking charge. She wasn't frozen up by strange situations as he was, or as fatigued by the long flight like her mother. It was natural for her to assume some responsibility, and finding an apartment was hardly a monumental task. "We'll take our luggage to the hotel—mother, Dixon, you can rest there while we look through all the places Mr. Bell recommended. We should be back in time for dinner."

Those were the conditions, under which Margaret and her family first glimpsed the city of Milton—bundled together in a taxicab, winding through the airport buildings and traffic, which gave way to a flat, uninteresting highway. There was not a palm tree to be found—clusters of pines occasionally broke up the landscape, and her artist's eye ached for some contrast. They began to see the occasional warehouse and farmhouse, quite visible from the road, which were quickly replaced by rows of small brick houses perpendicular to the main road. The sign that welcomed them into Milton was plain but well-maintained. Margaret could hear her mother muttering about the smog—it was impossible not to notice it. They were properly underneath the cloud of it when the road widened; they were forced to stop for the other people and vehicles crossing the street. She counted two mail trucks and one for groceries.

"There is the library where I am going to work," Mr. Hale said, pointing towards one in the sea of large brick buildings, this one set apart by bright window-boxes. "And this should be the hotel." It didn't take long for them to settle in to their rooms; the house-viewing went quickly and unsatisfactorily. They often didn't even have to say what each was thinking, Margaret knew from just a glance what was on her father's mind. He thought that the houses here supported the impression his wife already had of Milton. Margaret was more disappointed that none of the houses had a garden.

They compared their notes and decided upon the second house, in a neighborhood called Crampton. It was close enough to the center of town that they would be able to walk everywhere they needed to, and near enough to the library that Margaret decided to go there alone when her father went back to sign the lease.

It was with some excitement that she opened the door, half-expecting to encounter the same hideous wallpaper of the Crampton house, but instead the walls were a fresh light color, and the lobby she stood in was cool and quiet compared to the street outside.

There was a counter but it was empty; there was nobody else that she could see in the library. The lobby opened up into a long room, the bookshelves stripes of dark wood against the light paint. There was a chandelier, a beautiful antique, and several chairs at one end of the room. She thought it was the most beautiful thing she'd seen in Milton so far.

This was where her father would spend his days, looking after these books. She knew there would be lectures and tutoring as well, and she looked for the door that would surely lead into the multipurpose room for these occasions. At the far corner of the room she found it, almost hidden between a gap in the line of bookshelves.

She twisted the doorknob and pushed it open, finally finding someone inside that she could talk to. She had been expecting an elderly woman; seated at a desk with his back to her was a young man, so immersed in whatever papers and books he was reading that he hadn't noticed her come in at all. He turned the next page of his book, pushing the drooping sleeve of his shirt back over his elbow.

Margaret took a step forward and the floorboard sang out, in an instant the man looked up and quickly rose from his chair, much more surprised to see her than she was upon seeing him. "What are you doing here?"

She ignored the rudeness entirely—it never occurred to Margaret that she could be trespassing, she had just as much of a right to be here as anyone. "My name is Margaret Hale—my father starts work here tomorrow. I had no idea that the library would be closed. Please, don't stop your work on my account."

Although he wasn't much in the habit of following orders, he sat back down as she asked, his eyes skimming the newest page of the book. He could tell she meant to leave, but a series of photographs on the wall distracted her—taken at various stages of the initial formation of the town. "The third picture is of the library itself, under construction," he found himself saying, returning quickly to his book and affecting an air of deep focus. She had interrupted his concentration and he doubted he would soon get it back. He had gotten the strangest feeling when she had first looked at him—like he had a button loose or an untied shoelace.

"That's you, in the picture!" Margaret peered closer, reading the inscription aloud. "Mr. John Thornton in front of the Milton Community Library… you built this place?"

"I own this place."

"Oh." It came out more like a sigh. So this was the man that made their relocation to Milton possible. She thought then that she must be friendly, at least for her father's sake and despite being tired and jet-lagged from the flight. In his turn, he interpreted that _oh_ as a condescending admission—that there was nothing about him to suggest who he was: a businessman, a property-owner, one of the most respected men in Milton. He had been in contact with Mr. Hale of course, but had only heard rumors about his family. There was an aunt who was once a great fashion model and still considered something of a celebrity. The daughter, he had assumed, would be a young girl.

"It is a beautiful library," she continued, hoping to assuage him with the compliment. "I would like to explore a little more, with your permission."

Thornton replied curtly that she could do as she wanted, at the same time both glad and irritated that she hadn't asked him to show her around the building. No one knew this place as well as he did—he reminded himself that it wouldn't be true much longer, once Mr. Hale began his stewardship.

She left him alone and he was able to read in peace for the next several minutes before he heard Margaret's whispering voice again in the nonfiction hall, accompanied now by a second voice. Leaving the sanctuary of the office, he found Margaret with what must have been her father. She had taken him by the arm and was leading the way back to the lobby when they saw him, and Mr. Hale was so kind and courteous that Thornton nearly forgot all of the awkwardness before. This was someone he was genuinely glad to have met.

"I could entrust this place to no one else," Thornton was saying, "especially when you've been so highly recommended by Mr. Bell."

"Does he come up here often?"

"Every now and then, to check on his property," Thornton replied. "He owns the land and buildings that MarlboroughTech runs out of, in addition to several others. Maybe he will visit more often, now that you and your family are here." He didn't sound very happy about the idea.

"Well, he'll know right where to find us. Mr. Thornton, I'll see you tomorrow," he said, shaking Thornton's hand warmly. He looked for Margaret but she was already heading outside.

Thornton returned back to his work, thinking that he could pull some of the records about the city's creation that were archived here if Margaret wanted to learn more about Milton. The structured, planned city meant that sometimes people behaved more like they lived in a small town—rumors and gossip about the newcomers from California would be a popular topic for the next week or two. He didn't care for the stories, but he did have pride in his hometown, and it was that part of him that wanted to know what they would make of Milton.

* * *

"And what was he like? Mr. Thornton?"

"Ask Margaret," Mr. Hale said, reaching into the basket at the center of the table and pulling out another roll, "she spent more time with him than I did."

Margaret frowned. They were in the middle of dinner, so there was nowhere to escape, and the questions kept coming. It was putting her off her tea. "He's fine, I guess. Not very talkative…and brusque when he did speak—"

"He's to-the-point, I think is what Margaret was trying to say," her father interrupted, eager to put a positive spin on the description.

"But I think he is just the sort of person you would expect Milton to produce," Margaret finished.

Her mother nodded. Finished with his bread, Mr. Hale's right hand sought hers out, the fingers clasping together. "I think we will be considered by many here to be characteristic of California, someone the west would produce, as you said. When we get to know each other better, I'm sure we won't need these generalizations anymore."

"I thought he was about the same age as Henry Lennox," her father said, not noticing as Margaret tried unsuccessfully not to choke on her drink. "Do you think they're similar at all, Margaret?"

She didn't think there could be a worse topic than her personal opinions of John Thornton, but they had found it in Henry Lennox. Wallowing in those memories was for the bubble bath she had planned for that night—not for the dinner table, and not for her parents. She coughed several times, her eyes watering a little from the burn in her throat. "I couldn't say. I suppose they're very different."

Margaret turned to her mother, desperate for a change in conversation. "You'll see it tomorrow, but that wallpaper in the house is even worse than father said it was. You must prepare yourself."

* * *

Later that evening, chin deep in scented bubbles, she allowed herself to think about Henry Lennox. Once Edith got engaged to Henry's brother, they saw each other about as often as their own families. And the week before they left for Milton he showed up, oblivious to the mess of cardboard boxes and dust left behind in the wake of the furniture sales, and told Margaret that he was in love with her. He had asked her to stay behind—her parents didn't know. And when she had told him, gently but firmly, that he was like a brother to her, and nothing more, Henry had sulked so much that even Edith had noticed. In that way, Margaret was glad that they had moved so far away—it wasn't running away, she had nothing to feel guilty about or to run from—but this could be an opportunity for a fresh start. She blew at the bubbles floating across the water. At the very least, it was a silver lining.

* * *

A/N:

1. While this story is a modern adaptation, it's meant to take place in an unspecified time in the mid-2000s.

2. It's in the book category so I'm only putting in a little flavor of the miniseries (love them both equally!) …in fact, I've never written a story in this category at all before, so let me know what you thought! Things will start to diverge quite a bit in the upcoming chapters.

3. I'm aiming to update once a week at the very least, so Chapter 2 should be out by next Monday. In addition, all pre-chapter quotes will come from _North & South_ itself.

4. Thank you and much love to my beta, My Misguided Fairytale! She also made the amazing icon for my story, thanks so much!

_5. Thank you_ for reading and _please_ review, I value and treasure each one.


	2. The Smooth Sea

Quicker than one week! What can I say, this is fun :)

* * *

**East & West**

* * *

Chapter Two: The Smooth Sea

_"The smooth sea of that old life closed up, without a mark left to tell where they had all been."_

* * *

"Thank goodness we were able to move in so quickly!" Margaret set her last box down beside Dixon's, the clusters of cardboard boxes grouped together by room. On hers the words _sewing equipment_ were scrawled across in large letters—destined for the sitting room.

"Everything came much quicker than I would have guessed," Dixon agreed, leaning against the stack of boxes labeled _books_, thankfully already in their right place. The study was their unloading-point for now; Dixon and Margaret had both decided to go room by room until everything was put away. "Imagine if these boxes made it to Milton before we did!"

"Should we save them? …The boxes?"

"You mean, in case we all come to our senses and decide to go back?" Dixon spent a few moments smoothing the frizzes of hair that had come loose from their work. "One move was so difficult; I almost don't have it in me to go again!" Hesitating, she continued, "I know it must be hard, but don't you worry! You'll make some friends in no time. Why not take a break from moving boxes and go for a walk—you can take your sketchbook with you. I'll finish things here."

Margaret tucked a pencil into the spiral-binding of her book and was on her way. One thing she could say for Milton was that the streets were very interesting—she didn't have to go far to find a storefront with bright awnings and the grocery store was always busy, the seasonal displays full of summer fruits. Several blocks off of the town's main square she passed by the large warehouse building, set behind a fence bearing a stylized logo: Hamper's Electronics. She had seen the design on another building nearby.

Thinking she would sketch a part of the building—the brick pattern between the windows was really unique—she set to finding the right angle when she nearly backed into someone coming out of the building behind her. "Going inside?" he asked, holding the door open for her, and despite herself Margaret instinctively thanked him and went inside even though she never meant to.

She had gone into a bar; blinds over the windows cast stripes of light over the walls and countertop. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, she saw that the place was about half-full and went to one of the empty stools at the counter. Across the wall was a neon sculpture of a dragon spitting out bright yellow sparks.

"Welcome to the Golden Dragon." The bartender said with a friendly smile. "Can I help you with anything? Directions…?"

Margaret laughed good-naturedly; looking around the bar again proved that she was the farthest thing possible from a regular patron. "I want to try something local," she decided, another impulse. "Something unique to Milton, please."

"Get her a summer ale, and a second for me." It was the man beside her at the counter who spoke. "Put it on my tab."

"Thank you!" She turned towards him, studying him more closely. Besides his hat, all of his clothing was in taupe and gray colors, and on the shirt she could see the same stylized _H_ from the gate outside. "I'm Margaret Hale."

"Nicholas Higgins." He regarded her, amused. When the glasses came he raised his up towards her and took a long sip. "That came from a microbrewery just outside of town…wherever you're from, they don't make them like this."

She smiled, picking up the glass and raising it to her lips. It was quite different from the California wines her aunt loved so much. "Is it so obvious that I'm new to Milton? I was hoping the feeling would go away eventually, but everywhere I go it just reminds me of how lost I am," Margaret said, setting the glass down and twisting her fingers together in her lap. As the afternoon stretched down into evening, the bar was becoming more crowded. Many of the patrons, she noted, had a similar uniform to Nicholas. "Sometimes I do get lost, like actually, turned-around lost."

Nicholas laughed. "I think I've seen you before—at the grocery store with my daughters, I remember a woman in there asking for directions the other day. That was you, wasn't it…where were you trying to go?"

"The library." Remembering what he said, Margaret added, "Your daughters?"

"Mary and Bessy…I love them more than anything," he said, his hands hugging the near-empty glass. With a sentimental sniff, he looked around the room as if expecting to see one of them. "Mary'll be at home by now, and Bessy works part-time at M-Tech after school…they're really great, both of them." He twisted in his seat; finding several bills in his pocket he left them on the counter.

Margaret thanked him for the drink; in return he gave her a strong handshake. "Right! I'm going home, you've reminded me of my duty to my family—" and he nodded, catching the eye of the bartender— "same time next week, then. …Oh hey, Boucher! Walk with me."

Margaret watched them leave, realizing that she ought to follow suit and get back to her own house. Her family would be missing her.

* * *

_My dear Margaret, _

_To cheer you up I've attached several pictures of the view from our balcony—I swear I've seen a rainbow every day. Believe it or not my mother has left home as well…she's vacationing in Paris, entirely on a whim! See what's happened now that you're gone. You really are the glue that holds us all together. Secretly, I think she's jealous that we get all the adventure. _

_Remember your green dress? Well, somehow it ended up in my suitcase. I'm holding it ransom; you'll only get it back when we meet again! XOX Edith_

When she heard the door to the living room open, Margaret looked up from her phone. Her father walked inside, shuffling his feet. "The whole house smells like a bakery," he commented mildly.

"Dixon made a batch of coffee cake," Margaret said, turning her attention back to her email.

"That will go nicely, then. I've invited Mr. Thornton over this evening." And then he turned around to leave the room, as if to cut off any anticipated resistance.

The phone slipped out of her fingers, landing on her lap. "He's coming here?" She leapt up, to her mind everything wrong about the room coming into a bright and insistent focus. The pillows were lopsided and there was an empty tissue box on the table. She hadn't even put the vacuum away from the day before.

While her father called their furnishings 'comfortable,' her mind ran wild with all of the ways they could fail to make a good impression—and their first meeting barely counted as one at all, she barely saw him and barely even knew what to say. They should do right by her father's first friend in Milton.

Margaret looked around the room, as harsh a critic as she imagined John Thornton to be, and with horror she went to the bookcase and quickly moved the second-grade yearbook photograph of herself behind a very large book. He did not need to see that.

Margaret picked up the tissue box and turned around suddenly as her father came back in. "Why?"

"Why ever not?"

"We…" Every excuse sounded ridiculous: _we still have boxes in the study, surely our house isn't fit for company, what if he doesn't like coffee cake?_ "…We don't even have coasters."

With a fond smile, Mr. Hale took the box out of her hands and guided her back to the sofa. "Thornton isn't coming for the coasters. I want your mother to meet him." Margaret sat on the couch, surveying the cozy little room. Any reply to Edith would have to wait.

* * *

It was just beginning to rain when Hale and Thornton came back in from the library. They were in the middle of a conversation, but Margaret could only hear pieces of it as they took off their jackets. "When I started teaching, how different it was from how it is now! I remember the day the University installed computers in their library—compared to others our department relies much more on discussions and readings, but now we see the full potential of technology for education and progress!"

"Its use in business is even more profound," Thornton was saying, "The ability to advertise one's company, to accept orders from across the country—while we only build the framework of the pieces, not the chips or cables, my workers take pride in being involved in such an industry, as do I."

They gathered in the living room, the couch and chairs pulled up around the long, low table. Introductions were made, and coffee cake was served. "Oh, Margaret!" her father said when she handed him the corner slice, "I spent the afternoon trying to convince Mr. Thornton to add a computer to the library, for public use. What do you think?"

"I think it's a great idea," she said, handing a generous portion over to Thornton. His hands cradled the bottom of the plate, brushing against her fingers for a moment before she withdrew, passing the final plates to her mother and herself.

"As far as business decisions go, it's a great expense with no immediate profit," he replied. "And we would have to find space for a computer desk—but I think the amenity will draw in more patrons."

"That's all it is to you—a business proposal? What about all of the social good—for your employees who work to build computers but don't own one themselves?"

"With each decision I make, I _am_ thinking of my employees," he said, sitting up farther in the chair. Margaret and her father shared the couch; where he could talk and whisper to Mr. Hale, he had a farther distance to cross to reach her. "I can't deny that we live in a town that prioritizes business and technology—in fact, Milton seems to encourage it—but it gives us opportunities that most other regions lack. Anything else would seem slow by comparison. I would rather live here than anywhere, including your home out West."

His words roused in her a sudden wave of homesickness that she could barely contain. "You're wrong," she said, angry with herself as much as with him, "What do you know about our home? If Milton was made to encourage trade, then it must be at the expense of something else—culture, maybe, if there is nothing here to inspire people—everyone I see looks exhausted, all the time. You can't judge other places if you don't know them."

"Indeed we can't," Thornton replied, nodding. He could see that she was deeply missing her old home, and decided to finish up his cake rather than continue to remind Margaret of everything she had put behind her.

"I find that there is much less sun in Milton," Mr. Hale said.

"And you'll see even less of it in winter." Thornton narrowed his eyes, as if remembering something. "I'm not a betting man but I'd wager we get more snow, too. Snow and ice, now those are bad for business—one winter, several years ago, we lost power for two weeks. There was no work, no heat, and very little food to go around."

"You told me that Milton has grown quite a bit since then—that your own company was fairly new at the time," Hale said, joining and linking his fingers together in his lap.

"There was room in the market for more—and a fair number of people who wanted to go into business, either as a partner or on their own. The demand brings not just more workers, but managers, bankers, clerks. It is another Milton way that the hardest-working, most dutiful employees can and will be rewarded for it."

"And would you say the reverse is true? That a moment of indulgence should be punished? That if their businesses are unsuccessful, does that mean that they deserve the failure, and brought it on?" Margaret asked.

It vexed him how determined she was to find a fault with his arguments. They were coming at every point from cross-purposes, and he doubted there was a way to explain their points without offending each other. He hesitated for a moment before continuing on, "I'm talking from personal experience. Everything good in my life I owe to my mother, who brought two children up on her own." It was the best example he could think of.

"She taught me resolve and self-denial, to be strong like she was, and those traits more than any talent or good luck has put me where I am today, and I thank her for it. She deserves every comfort I can give her. But excess and luxury for its own sake, that one hasn't earned, is a waste. I will give anyone my business, but I don't think those sort of people are worth my time."

When he finally noticed the time—it was quite later than he realized—and stood up to go back to his house, after shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Hale, he turned to Margaret, who instead of a handshake presented him with a compact navy umbrella. He looked at her for a moment, confused.

"It's still raining," she explained, "so take it for your walk back. Take it as an olive branch, too—I didn't mean to argue with you so much. You're right that I don't understand Milton, but I'd like to. It's why I ask so many questions."

She caught the slightest smile as he took the umbrella from her, unwrapping the binding and shaking it loose. There were small white polka-dots scattered across the dark fabric. It was a nice smile, she thought, and something she'd never see if they kept arguing. "Thank you," he said. "If it's not raining tomorrow, come by to get it back."

He stepped outside into the rain, and she closed the door behind him.

* * *

They were clearing plates and stacking them in the kitchen when Margaret came in.

"What did you think?" her father asked. "I couldn't help but notice how lonesome you looked, comparing Milton to our old home in Helstone. I had heard a little of Thornton's past from Mr. Bell, but it was the first time I'd heard anything on the subject from himself."

"That was probably the only thing he said that I liked—I just couldn't understand his lack of empathy. He'd look down on someone for not having his strengths, but not do anything to give them the training his mother did. We're not all made of steel," Margaret said, sighing. Her father was washing, so she took the first plate and wiped it dry.

"I know you don't like him very much, but thank you for trying, for my sake. He's been a fine friend so far, and this weekend I've been invited to lunch with several of the executives at the various companies around town." He sounded proud, to be making such quick friends so soon after their move.

Not long after they'd finished, Dixon came into the living room, a large framed painting held in both hands. "I found it, Margaret! The thing you're looking for is always in the last place you check."

Margaret came towards her with a happy, relieved smile. The painting was of the main green square of Helstone, vibrantly lit from the sun. On either side were several buildings, and in the back, stretching in one long, unbroken row, was a lush hedge of rosebushes with beautiful yellow blossoms. She had never felt as proud as when she'd signed her name in the bottom corner and declared it finished—it had been worrying her for the past several days that somehow the painting had gotten lost in the move.

"Thank you, Dixon! Where shall we put it?"

"How about on the long wall, so you can admire it from the sofa."

Mrs. Hale moved to the couch as they were talking, and with some deliberation they all found the perfect place for the painting. Almost to herself, she murmured that it was a shame they had only found it now, as that meant Mr. Thornton hadn't been able to see it, and perhaps such a depiction could have softened his opinion on the home they had left behind.

* * *

A/N:

1. Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed, I love you guys! I really appreciate the warm reception to the story, and hope that you continue to enjoy it! Let me know what you thought!

2. Thanks again to my beta, My Misguided Fairytale, for your great work.


	3. Out of Doors

Happy Easter! :) I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

* * *

**East & West**

* * *

Chapter Three: Out of Doors

"_Her out-of-doors life was perfect. Her in-doors life had its drawbacks."_

* * *

_Two years ago_

The wide glass windows of the Beresford Modeling Agency were filled with bright banners and groups of mannequins dressed in the season's best. Margaret linked arms with Edith as they crossed the street, heading towards the building's front doors.

"We're so late!" Margaret tugged Edith along as she walked faster.

"Don't worry, I'll just explain to my mother that I had absolutely nothing to wear. That or we got paint on our clothes and had to change," Edith said, giggling. They entered a stylish lobby and nodded to the receptionist, who recognized them and waved them in.

"I'd never believe such an excuse. You look good in everything, even a paint-flecked smock!"

She smiled mischievously. "Imagine if we hadn't changed—I had blue specks all over my sleeves. I think you even had some in your hair!"

If they were late, the photo shoot that Mrs. Shaw was overseeing was even tardier. The airy, windowed hallway opened out into various rooms and offices, and they could make out the studio's bright lights even from far away. As they softly opened the door, they could hear the photographer calling out in-between each shot:

"Okay, Captain, tilt your chin down just a fraction!"

"Beautiful!"

"Now one last shot… got it. That's a wrap. Great job Captain, and great job, crew!" Several people came up onto the set, ready to take down the backdrop and fold away the stands and lights.

Margaret approached one of the makeup artists, who was packing up her kit. "Captain?" she asked, arching one eyebrow.

"I don't know how he got the nickname," she said, sliding a set of brushes into a long fabric roll. "He's just the Captain!"

She looked up to see Edith, drawn like a magnet to the middle of the set. Margaret could hear him saying to her cousin, "The client was Gillette—my face has never felt so smooth."

"Can I feel it? Wow, you're right!"

Leaving them alone, Margaret walked to the other side of the studio, looking for her aunt. She found her sitting in a gray folding-chair, a cup of coffee in one hand. "My dear Margaret," she said, leaning up and giving her two air-kisses, one on either cheek. "One of these days I'll finally prevail in getting you in front of the camera."

"I'm quite happy where I am, Aunt Shaw," said a smiling Margaret. "But that reminds me—I have to get back to Helstone in two weeks, not three weeks like I'd thought. I have thesis meetings before my actual classes start."

"You're always so busy! We'll be sad to lose you—but send Maria my love. We'll have to throw a great big going-away party for you."

"A party! We'll send you off in style." Edith had come up to them, the Captain not far behind her. "Can we wrangle an invitation or two for Captain Lennox?"

"I have a brother in law school," Lennox explained. "I'm always trying to get him to get out more. There's more than enough hours in the day for work and play, right?" He was winning her mother over as quickly as he had charmed Edith.

On their way out, standing before the doors of the elevator, Edith whispered in Margaret's ear, "I'm so glad we didn't show up with paint on our clothes!"

* * *

Margaret walked down New Street, the main road of Milton. There was another girl on the path in front of her with a similar height and hair color as Edith, and Margaret couldn't help but remember the summers spent in her aunt's home in Hollywood and the joyous, carefree way they would go about their days. The girl went into one of the stores lining New Street and Margaret continued on, adjusting the large tote bag hanging from her shoulder. In addition to her art supplies, she had brought a blanket to put on the ground—even though it had stopped raining last night, the ground might still be wet. She had noticed a small public park, situated like an afterthought in-between two stripes of row houses, and it had a triple-tiered fountain that would make for a challenging drawing exercise.

But first, she was heading to John Thornton's house to retrieve her umbrella.

Her father had given her directions, but she didn't think she would have any trouble finding the house—it was located in a campus of sorts of Marlborough-Tech buildings. In a way, the density of the city was something she admired—she enjoyed walking places, and thought it was a good and healthy thing to have everything reachable by foot. But the more pragmatic part of her wondered if fitness and fresh air was the farthest thing on the minds of the city's planners. If Thornton was to be believed, business and the bottom line were the true rulers of Milton.

She passed between two large, wooden gates that opened into a wide paved yard. There was a fair amount of traffic, people coming in and out, or threading in-between the various buildings. No one paid her the slightest bit of attention, so she was free to observe everything as she tried to figure out where to go next.

The building in front of her was tall and long, stretching one length of the paved plaza and continuing further on. Margaret noticed a small sign above the door, the words 'Storage and Distribution Center' in clear, crisp lettering. She could make out two other large buildings farther away, where she supposed the assembly lines and manufacturing equipment were located. Her father had been here once before, but he hadn't really told her much about it.

The large old house stood off to one side, looking practically like a relic in comparison to its surroundings. It was covered in wood siding painted a nondescript gray color. A balcony stretched along the second level, but there was no furniture on the terrace. This had to be the place she was looking for.

She walked up the front steps and rapped twice on the door. It was opened a minute later by a severe-looking woman, dressed in an impeccably tidy black suit jacket and skirt. "My name is Margaret Hale," she said, reaching out her hand for the customary Milton handshake.

"Hannah Thornton," the woman replied, giving her hand a strong, firm shake.

Margaret hardly seemed bothered by the appraising look that was directed at her—let Mrs. Thornton weigh her up if she wanted to, it seemed to be her way. "Yesterday I lent your son an umbrella," she explained politely, "and he told me I could come by and get it back."

The mention of John Thornton seemed to do the trick; she opened the front door a little wider and stepped to the side in one fluid, dignified motion. "Please come in. I'll go and get it for you."

At Mrs. Thornton's urging for her to take a seat, Margaret moved towards a large but rather stiff-looking sofa and sat down at one end of it. There were also two club chairs and a piano, and she couldn't help but notice how spotlessly clean everything was. The décor of the room was very formal, and rather masculine, and she wondered which Thornton had chosen the furnishings.

Margaret heard someone coming down-stairs, shouting, "Mother, I can't find my cardigan! Did you put it in the wash?" A moment later a woman appeared in the doorway and locked eyes with Margaret. "Hi," she said, limply waving her hand. "I didn't know we had company. I'm Fanny."

"I'm Margaret." Instead of sitting down on one of the chairs, Fanny went over to the upright piano, sitting backwards on the piano bench. After some silence Margaret asked, "Do you play?"

"Oh yes," Fanny replied, nodding enthusiastically. "Do you?"

"No. But my cousin does."

Fanny frowned a little at the answer. "This is not a very artistic place," she said, confiding in Margaret like it was a secret. "If I lived in New York City I would see a play or musical every week."

They both looked up when Mrs. Thornton came back into the room. The little navy umbrella was in her hands, tied closed and dry. "Here is your umbrella Ms. Hale," she said, and Margaret went over to retrieve it from her.

"You have a beautiful home," Margaret said after a moment. She had especially been admiring the chandelier, a sparkling crystal fixture that made the room seem very bright.

"When Marlborough-Tech was started, this house was going to be torn down to make room for a plastics welding division. But we aren't so cavalier as to waste a perfectly good building, not when we could live here and be so near to the industry that provides us all of these beautiful things you can see around you."

Margaret simply nodded, nearly at a loss for something to say.

"Watson, Hamper, even Slickson—the other executives of this town can't hold a candle to my son. His is a friendship your father was wise to make, as I'm sure he understands."

At this Margaret looked up sharply, replying before she had any time to think about it, "Are you implying that my father values his friends only as a means to an end? I can assure you that isn't the case. I don't care about John Thornton one way or the other, but my father respects him and doesn't ask anything of him."

Fanny, who had been braiding the ends of her hair with a bored expression, suddenly looked much more interested in what was going on. Mrs. Thornton was barely succeeding to disguise her expression of contempt, and as Margaret stood up to go, thanking her for returning the umbrella, Mrs. Thornton couldn't help but think that with her son in such high demand in Milton he should waste his time with a poor, friendless professor and his unpleasant daughter.

Margaret left the house, tucking the umbrella into her tote bag. Looking over her shoulder as she approached the gate she could still see the figure of Mrs. Thornton in the window, watching her walk away.

* * *

Margaret was in an angry mood when she spread out her blanket on the grassy green slope of the park, and she lay back, closing her eyes for several minutes. There was nothing like being outside—whenever she felt tired or irritated, the sunshine and breeze carried her troubles away. Exploring some new path in Helstone was always her best remedy, and Margaret supposed there were plenty of places still new to her here.

Reinvigorated and ready to work, she assembled her supplies and started to sketch out the placement of the various shrubs and trees she wanted on her canvas. Working half from her surroundings and half from her own mind, she began to construct a beautiful garden, the landscape in stepped tiers to make it more interesting. When she went to her brushes to begin laying the color down, the color of the sky turned out quite lighter than she'd anticipated—a happy accident, which she incorporated by tweaking the light to be from an early morning sunrise.

Margaret lost track of time as she worked—minutes became hours as she added in more layers of detail. The sculptural fountain, translated from the Milton Park to her canvas, received a weathered patina. As she added just a touch of definition for the water tricking down the fountain, she felt a familiar prickle on the back of her neck and shoulders. The shadow cast on her blanket confirmed that there was a person standing behind her, watching her paint.

She looked back, expecting to see anyone except John Thornton, who was staring at the canvas with the strangest expression on his face. He didn't look ashamed to be caught out, and when she moved over a little, motioning for him to share her blanket, he sat down near her. His legs stretched out in front of him, his feet off of the blanket entirely. "Please, keep going," he said.

As gently as he meant it, it still sounded like a command and her next additions to the painting— giving a twisting strand of morning glory vines soft pink flowers—were made cautiously. He was making her nervous, and at one point she wished he would get up and leave.

After a while she set the canvas down to let the top layer of paint dry. "Well, what do you think?" she asked, motioning towards the painting.

He leaned in a bit to study the canvas more closely. "You're very talented," Thornton answered, and meant it. He didn't often give compliments, and never undeserved ones.

"Thank you." Margaret had brought a little round cup of soapy water, which she used to clean her brush until it was free of paint, laying it on a piece of newspaper to dry. She continued to wash and dry the last brush as she talked. "Your mother gave me back my umbrella this morning."

"Did she?" He seemed to be distracted by something, she couldn't tell what. She finished with the last brush and sealed the lid on the cup of water so that it wouldn't spill.

"How long have you been working on that?" he asked.

"Oh, just today. After the rain, the weather was so nice today that I had to get out and do something," Margaret said. She was tucking the now-dry brushes into a little fabric roll. "This was just for fun. At home I have an easel so I can work on larger canvases, and more tools and paint colors to choose from. It's nothing, though, compared to the studio we had when I was a student at Helstone—that felt endless, and we could draw, paint, and sculpt every day."

It was perhaps the longest thing she'd ever said to him and she was happy to keep talking, lighting up at the memories of her home and art studies. Thornton shifted his position on the blanket—it wasn't actually as comfortable to him as it seemed to be to Margaret—and keeping his voice calm and even, said, "Every year, a group of businesses in Milton host a charity gala and auction. The money goes to helping patients at the hospital, and we ask for donations of items to be auctioned off…Margaret, could you contribute a new painting for the gala? It's one month from tomorrow, it can be of whatever you like—"

"Yes, of course I can!" She looked so pleased to be asked. "I'll do my best to help make the gala successful."

Margaret's mind was already spinning with ideas; she hardly noticed him checking his watch with some reluctance. "What sort of topics do you think will get the highest price?" she asked. "You would know the tastes of the people attending better than me. What about a seascape, or a harvest scene?"

Slowly, he got up, smoothing the creases in his clothing. "I'm sorry to leave, but I have an appointment in ten minutes." On a whim, he added, "Hot air balloons."

"What?" She looked up at him, confused and also, he thought, a little disappointed that he was leaving so soon.

Thornton shrugged, wondering where the idea had come from. Maybe he had seen one in a painting as a child. "I think you should paint hot air balloons."

He began to walk away in the direction of Marlborough-Tech. His pace was quick and even, and Margaret watched him until, a minute later, he disappeared from her view. She sat still for a few moments, just enjoying the Park.

As she finished packing up the last of her supplies in her tote bag—the canvas she could carry with her free hand—she stood up to see Nicholas Higgins walking towards her, arm-in-arm with a girl she presumed to be one of his daughters.

"What are you doing here, nearly outside my front door?" Higgins asked, lifting the brim of his cap in greeting. "Margaret Hale, this is my oldest daughter Bessy."

"I'm so glad to meet you," Margaret said, giving her a friendly smile. "I didn't know you lived here! I was just doing some painting."

"I can see that—wow, it's impressive," Bessy said. She admired it for a moment, half reaching-out to touch the canvas. "He came back from the Golden Dragon one night and couldn't stop talking about the strangest newcomer he had ever seen."

"It's been some time now—I should hope I've blended in a little." Margaret reached down to pick up the blanket, Bessy automatically helping her to fold it in half, then half again. She rested it in her bag, on top of her tools and paints.

"I don't think we've ever seen someone with a blanket out here, have we?" Bessy asked her father, laughing good-naturedly. "Maybe you're sticking out now more than ever."

To Margaret, Bessy continued, "I think it's good that he has someone new to talk to. I only have the summer left before I'm off to college, but he's been carrying on like I'm leaving Milton for the rest of my life."

Margaret grinned. Without saying anything, the three of them moved over to the front-steps of one of the row houses, sitting down to continue their conversation. Margaret noticed a lot of similarities between the two of them—they had a similar sense of humor, the same open friendliness. She felt like they were treating her not like near-strangers but like old friends. After a moment she asked, "I think Nicholas told me you worked part-time at Marlborough-Tech?"

Bessy nodded. "Customer service department, I'm not on the assembly-line like father is at Hamper's. I get to sit and work the phones all day."

"I'm sorry if this is too personal, but do you like working there? What is it like, working for Mr. Thornton?"

"He's alright. Tough, but fair," Bessy answered, looking to her father for corroboration. "It's Mrs. Thornton you've got to watch out for…I can see that look on your face, you've met her already. I suppose that's the real initiation to Milton, having a run-in with Mrs. Thornton."

"The executives—Thornton, Hamper and the like, mostly stick with their own. I don't know if I can say for sure what they are like, but they certainly don't know us. It'll be their loss in the end for not listening, though." Nicholas Higgins said, shaking his head and frowning.

Margaret looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

"Things have a way of cycling back around again—the market was healthy three, four years ago, but it's not the same now. I have buddies at the Golden Dragon who work further up than I do and some at the other companies too. There are things we aren't told—why the price for the metals goes up and up, but what we get paid goes down. Hamper's got an entire warehouse full, and he can't pay somebody to take those PDAs and late-model phones away. There's nowhere to put the new things we're making. One day somebody's going to open the door and everything is just going to keep spilling out."

He sounded bitter, and she imagined him at the Golden Dragon, making rousing speeches in the crowded bar. Margaret could see the way Bessy looked at him; she had heard this before. She still had much to learn about her new surroundings, but it seemed to her that every step closer to the heart of Milton seemed to reveal even more secrets.

* * *

That night, at the large gray house, Mrs. Thornton was sitting at the dining-room table, going over several printed pages of data. In the living room Fanny was at the piano, practicing the opening chords of a new piece of music. From time to time she would stop, peering closely at the sheet music in front of her, and with hesitation figured out the next chord to play.

Mrs. Thornton looked up when she heard the front door open and her son came in, choosing to pace around the dining room instead of taking a seat at the table. "You're home late," she said, turning over the page in her hands.

"I was installing the new computer and printer network at the library," he answered.

"Did _they_ convince you to do this?" Mrs. Thornton sounded like the least convincible person in the world; there was only one person she'd ever yield to, and he was standing in the room with her.

"It was a sound business decision, mother."

"Good business is something we could use more of," she replied, reaching for a pen and scribbling something in the margins of the paper. "If Slickson expects us to do all the work for the gala next month, he should expect to have his name taken off the sign."

"I'll handle Slickson," Thornton said. In the living room, Fanny stopped playing.

"Don't you dare cancel the gala," Fanny called, leaning backwards to see them from her position on the piano bench. "I've had my dress picked out for weeks." She resumed playing, the long, drawn-out notes now quick and staccato despite the music markings on the sheet. "I was surprised today how plain Margaret Hale's clothes were. If I had a fashion model for an aunt I'd wear couture all the time."

Thornton left the room, going into the kitchen to get himself a drink. Chiding his sister would accomplish nothing, and in a way he was still rebuking himself for his thoughts earlier that day. He had heard earlier from Mr. Hale that Margaret was artistic, but he had assumed it was meant in the same way that Fanny was musical.

At the table, Mrs. Thornton turned to the next page, making another notation with her pen. She had half a mind to ask him what was going on—he was more on-edge than normal, and he had been working later and later into the night—but he wouldn't keep any secrets from her. It was surely nothing, certainly nothing to do with the Hale family.

She knew him too well for that.

* * *

A/N:

1. _Thank you_ so much to everyone for reading and reviewing, I hope you are enjoying the story so far! The chapters are getting a little bit longer, let me know if that's a trend you like! (Even though I'm pretty sure I know the answer… :D)

2. As far as Bessy Higgins is concerned, consumption has no real place in a modern adaptation, and she wouldn't have gotten it anyways as she did not work as a child in a cotton mill. Instead she is leaving the nest, but to Higgins that isn't much different!

3. Heaps of thanks and gratitude to my beta, My Misguided Fairytale.


	4. Our Leaves Do Fall

OK you guys, I am so super proud of this chapter, it may be my favorite yet. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it!

* * *

**East & West**

* * *

Chapter Four: Our Leaves Do Fall

_"Our skies are not always as deep a blue as they are now. We have rain, and our leaves do fall, and get sodden."_

* * *

Margaret's bedroom was more like a loft—they had to be creative with the Crampton House, and Margaret had taken the top floor's multipurpose room as a bedroom-slash-studio. The walls had a few paintings hung up, and several photographs were grouped together in a collage by the bed. Near the window, currently open to catch the breeze, was an easel with a large, half-finished painting on it.

Margaret lay on her stomach on the bed, writing an email to her cousin.

_Edith,_

_It's been just over a month since we came to Milton—not that I'm counting or anything. But it is so lonely here, and although I have made a few friends, it doesn't feel the same. Nearly everyone I've met thinks mainly of their work, and they neglect everything else. The companies here build things like phones and computers that bring people together, but nobody in Milton seems to want that. _

Margaret stared at the blinking cursor on her phone. She didn't think anyone here noticed just how unconnected their city was. Maybe Thornton did—or it seemed like something her father would bring up, they had all kinds of conversations recently—but connecting with Thornton was maybe the farthest thing from what she had in mind.

_I am looking forward to something, though. Milton is holding a charity gala in three weeks, and I have a painting in the auction! You probably care just as much about what the venue is, and what I'm going to wear—probably the dress I bought for your wedding. Don't worry, I'll tell you all about it. How much longer are you in Hawaii? Father and mother send their love, and Dixon sends reminders to wear your sunscreen! Margaret_

She pressed _send_, setting the phone aside and rolling over onto her back a moment later. She decided to go for a walk and visit Bessy later that afternoon—there was no point in complaining how everyone in Milton kept to themselves if she did exactly the same thing.

* * *

It was raining—a light summer shower—and the library was crowded. From where she was sitting, in an upholstered chair against one wall, every other chair she could see was taken. Whenever her eyes drifted upwards from her book, there were always one or two new people wandering around, looking for a place to read or looking through the shelves of books. Every now and then she heard the voices of a group of children, and she could sometimes pick out her father's voice as he went about his tasks.

Reaching a good stopping place she slipped a blank piece of paper in-between the pages for a makeshift bookmark. It gave her an idea—there were plenty of the little paper slips, about the size of her hand, and stubby library pencils all over the place, and it took her no time at all to gather a few of them and settle in to her chair with a new purpose.

To her left and out of the corner of her eye she could just make out the lobby desk so she started on that, roughly sketching out the planes of the table. She drew her father leaning over the other side. He was tall and thin, and held a book reverently in his hands. Looking over her shoulder so often was starting to ache so she searched the room for a new subject.

She thought about sketching the youngest Boucher boy, who was sitting on the floor with his back against a bookshelf, moving his lips along with the words he was reading. Smiling, her eyes continued to wander and she noticed for the first time that John Thornton was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room.

He was reading one of the financial magazines that the library stocked, frowning as if he disagreed with whatever article he was looking at. His feet were planted firmly on the floor, but occasionally he would shift his position in the chair, or lean backwards until his head and neck were resting against the cushion. Margaret leant back, unconsciously mimicking the movement, and started to draw.

At drawing figures, she was out of practice, but after a few tries she thought she had captured a good likeness of his body—the way his hands curled around the magazine, the creases of his button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up around his elbows—and started on his face.

The eyebrows she made out of short, thin strokes, smudging the lines occasionally with her finger to get the effect she wanted. The mouth was set in an honest, decided expression—he had already made up his mind about the article, and she didn't know him to ever hold back his opinion—and she smudged the lines of his jaw and chin just a little for the faintest hint of shadow there. The eyes, she thought, looked a little bit tired, and she wondered if he wasn't sleeping well. His eyes were also, unfortunately, looking directly at her.

John Thornton was looking at her.

Immediately her eyes darted back down to the drawing in her lap. She had been using her book as a flat surface for her paper, and she drew it up a little higher, hoping that from across the room it looked like she was deeply engrossed in her book and didn't want to be disturbed. After a few moments she chanced another look, thankful that he had turned the page of his magazine and continued reading. Margaret kept sketching, adding in more detail where she thought she saw it: a bit of messiness to his hair from the summer humidity, shading in the fabric of his clothing, a touch more definition around his ears and fingernails.

Thornton was looking at her again. The corners of his lips quirked upwards and he stood up, setting the magazine on a small table beside his chair. Slowly, he walked across the room towards her, never breaking eye contact. "Let me see it."

"…See what?" Her eyes were huge. Margaret hugged the book closer to her chest, determined not to let him have it. For one moment she even considered eating the paper.

He leant down a little, whispering, "You were drawing a picture of me." It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact. Either way, he had no right to sound so pleased. "Don't deny it."

The library was so crowded that no one seemed to notice either of them, or was paying attention to what he was saying. The chair that Thornton had left behind was already filled by someone else. Margaret didn't want to lie, and it felt incredibly childish to keep drawing this out, but she wrapped her arms tighter around the book and shook her head. "You can't have it."

His eyes gleamed, and the part of Margaret's mind that wasn't frozen mentally revised her opinion that he looked tired. "That paper belongs to the library…it belongs to me. You must give it up."

A part of her knew that what she had heard was probably not what he had meant, but hearing him refer to something she had created as property, let alone his property, stirred something in her. She stood up so suddenly that he didn't have time to react and pushed the book, papers and all, into his hands.

"Because that's what's important. Right?"

She marched off, hardly caring what he thought of her drawings anymore. He could vaguely hear her talking to her father, telling him she was heading home, and as Thornton looked at the drawings in his hands—the several attempts, and the final, completed sketch—he tried to figure out what it was that he had done wrong this time. He sat down in the chair she had left, turning briefly through the pages of her book—something about Monet, he gathered through the pictures—and, as his eyes lingered on the portrait she had made, his face took on the same, frowning expression. He had to admit it was a good representation.

That was partly what troubled him.

* * *

"And then what did you do?"

"It was an avant-garde fashion show. We just sent the models out there, pink lipstick stains and all," Margaret said, leaning back into her chair and laughing. Across the table, Bessy grinned back at her. A pot of spearmint tea sat on the table between them, two cups cooling on either side. "But now I hear that my Aunt Shaw tapes and seals everything to make sure the makeup doesn't explode or come loose in the bags. You know, I think I remember drawing on a few hearts and things on the models' skin, to make it look less accidental."

"And what about the dress you're wearing to the gala in two weeks? Not a stain in sight, right?" Bessy sipped at her cup of tea, smiling thoughtfully. "Thank you again for that little painting, by the way."

Margaret had cleaned up the painting of the garden and fountain and given it as a gift to Bessy—she thought it was especially fitting, since they lived so close to the park where she painted it. "It's nothing. Just something to help you remember Milton when you're gone."

"There's plenty of time left before that."

They heard the front door open and Bessy's sister Mary came in, waving hello to Margaret before heading upstairs to her room. Margaret waved back before picking up the teapot and filling her cup again, tipping the last half of her sugar packet in afterwards. "You told me you were at the gala last year?"

"Yeah—working the coat check. But I had some time to look around—the Inn has the most beautiful view of the river," Bessy said. The large, colonial-style Inn was used for parties, mostly weddings, but every year on the last weekend in July, the ballrooms and grounds were booked for the annual charity gala. "I volunteered for this year as well, I'm still waiting for them to tell me if I'm working. It's about the only way I'll ever get a ticket."

"My father got three tickets—I think Mr. Thornton sent them."

"I wonder how John Thornton looks in a tuxedo," Bessy said, giggling. Margaret made a face at her from over her teacup.

* * *

The canvas wasn't too heavy, but it was bulky—too tall and wide to carry comfortably. Margaret was lucky that Mr. Bell was coming inside just as she was going out, and he had offered to drive her over to the M-Tech campus so she could drop off her finished painting. He drove a ridiculously conspicuous antique car that Mrs. Hale was too polite to say anything about. Margaret loved it.

"Do you want me to wait around for you? I don't mind at all," Mr. Bell said, turning to look at her as they stopped at a red light.

"You go on back—I'm sorry I took you away from my father. I'll walk back to the house," Margaret answered. She ran a hand over the seat cushion—the cream-colored leather had baby blue piping running down each side.

"It's just as well. I forgot to pick up my weekly lottery ticket and there's bound to be a store on New Street that can remedy that. Be wary, Margaret, I stopped by Thornton's office earlier this morning to check up on my property and I'm sure I aggravated him beyond reason. In fact, I made certain of it." When Margaret's smile became a laugh he winked at her, pleased at getting the reaction he wanted. The car pulled up in front of the Marlborough-Tech buildings and Margaret got out, gingerly taking the canvas from the back seat. She had wrapped it in a large portfolio—she was hoping Thornton would help her in finding a suitable frame for it. He had only asked her to contribute the painting, after all.

She waved goodbye to Mr. Bell, who honked the horn twice just because he could before driving off. Margaret made her way underneath the open gates, politely refusing someone's offer to carry the canvas and instead getting directions to Thornton's office. She entered through a door she hadn't noticed before, off to the side of the storage center, and went up one flight of stairs. She stopped in the middle of the empty hallway to adjust her grip on the canvas when she heard voices coming from one of the offices.

"You know as well as I do how futile it is to compete any more. I have to do something—forget the payroll; our own way of life is going to come to a screeching halt."

"Tell me you're not doing anything off the books. Otherwise, you'll get no help from me." Margaret recognized Thornton's voice. "I will protect my own employees first," he continued.

A moment later, as Margaret hefted the canvas again the door near the end of the hallway opened and a man came out. He was muttering under his breath, hardly paying Margaret any attention, but she couldn't help but notice the gold pin on his lapel—the stylized _H_ logo adorning all of Higgins' uniforms. The hallway once again empty, Margaret moved towards his office, setting the portfolio down gently and knocking twice on the door. There was a metal plaque on the wall beside the door with John Thornton's name in worn lettering.

"What more do you want!"

The words were out of his mouth as he opened the door, and instead of finding Hamper, Margaret stood there, looking at him with the most surprised expression on her face. They stared at each other for nearly a minute. "I—I brought the finished painting, like I said… for the gala…" Margaret trailed off, unsure of what to do. She had never seen him look so irritated. "Is this a bad time?"

"No!" Thornton quickly replied. "Come in. Please." He tried to make his words as gentle and polite as he could to make up for all but shouting at her a moment ago. He held the door open as she went into his office.

It was fairly spartan, as far as offices went—a desk, a chair, and several filing cabinets against one wall. The only clutter was concentrated to the desktop, where papers were stacked in several piles around a computer. Margaret set the portfolio down on top of the cabinets, undoing the latch and revealing the completed painting inside. "What do you think?"

Up until that moment Thornton would have said it was the day from hell. First he had to deal with Adam Bell, who had taken up his entire morning with tours and questions, and forced an invitation out of him to the upcoming gala. For all his posturing Bell was like a shark who had caught the first scent of blood in Milton. But it wasn't his; Hampers had come to his door, grumbling and grousing about his problems, and looking for a way to bury them even deeper in the ground. But when Thornton looked at the scene she had painted, everything else somehow became less important.

"I know it doesn't have a frame yet," Margaret was saying, oblivious to the change in Thornton's expression, "and I was hoping you'd be able to take care of that—"

"Sure," Thornton said, hardly even knowing what he was agreeing to.

"—that's great! I'll leave this with you, then. I'll need that cover back eventually, though; I only have one of them." She closed the cover of the portfolio, breaking the spell. Thornton rubbed at his temples, feeling the headache start to come creeping back in. "I'll be going, then," Margaret said.

"I'll walk you out," was the automatic reply.

Margaret looked at him curiously. "You don't have to." She didn't know what to make of him today. One moment he looked angry, the next…the closest thing she could think of was hungry, which was ridiculous. She would have to ask Mr. Bell what on earth he'd done to Thornton.

Even if he didn't have to, Thornton walked back over to the door, and when she left his office he locked the door behind them. They walked for a minute without saying anything. "Fanny will only talk about the gala now," he started, the tiniest smile playing at the corners of his mouth from some memory. "I don't know how she's going to make it through the week, she just might explode." Then, casually: "Are you looking forward to it?"

"Oh, of course," Margaret replied. "I'm glad that Milton has its own gatherings and events. They're good traditions to have."

He didn't quite know what to make of her answer. "Milton has a few traditions," he said, the strong pride in his hometown coloring his voice. "There's plenty of customs and events unique to Milton—or, at least, that are new for you."

They left the building, heading out into the late afternoon sunshine. "Thank you for walking me out," Margaret said, turning to leave. "There's a good chance I would have gotten lost—the layout of this place is a little confusing."

"Well, what do you expect, considering it was designed by Adam Bell," Thornton curtly replied, and watched her walk away.

* * *

The first thing Margaret saw when she walked back into the living room was her mother and Dixon sitting on the sofa, between them a large cardboard box covered with customs stickers. "Margaret! Look what's just come in the mail for you," her mother said, motioning for Margaret to join them on the couch.

"I'll get scissors to cut the packaging tape!" Dixon jumped up and started rummaging in a drawer of craft supplies for a pair of sharp scissors. "Were you expecting a package, Margaret? The return label doesn't have a name, but it came from France!"

The word _France_ triggered something in her memory; Margaret quickly opened her phone and checked for any new messages from Edith. There was only one person they knew who was in France. She opened the email, the words jumping out immediately:

_My mother would disown you if you didn't have something new for what is apparently the biggest social event in Milton—you know how she is. So I told her, and she's expediting you and your mother something from Paris—_

"It's from Aunt Shaw," Margaret said, and all three of them leaned over the box as Dixon expertly cut open the cardboard flaps. On top of a forest of white tissue paper was a card; she recognized her aunt's elegant handwriting. "I still have plenty of friends in the business who are only happy to create something for a Beresford. Dresses for you both, and a scarf for dear Dixon—I am enjoying playing the fairy godmother far more than I thought," she read aloud. "Oh, how can we thank her? What a surprise!"

She reached into the box and pulled out the first dress, wrapped in tissue paper. "It says this one is for you," Margaret said to her mother, handing her the package. Mrs. Hale pulled out the dress, running her fingers along the dove-gray fabric. Dixon was already wrapping the scarf around her neck; it was a long cut of silk fabric in a watercolor print.

Margaret gently tore at the tissue paper covering her dress, lifting the dress up from the box by its straps. The silky material rippled down, the dark blue color looking like waves of water when it caught the light. She held it up to her shoulders, and fought the urge to spin around.

"We'll take a picture before we go to the party, and send it to her," Mrs. Hale said, reaching up to hold Margaret's hand. "My sister doesn't miss a step. Well," she continued, looking to her daughter with a rare, excited smile, "should we go upstairs and try them on?"

* * *

Margaret shifted her position on the bed, reaching for her shoes. She slipped them on, kicking her feet for a few seconds. She could hear her father and Mr. Bell talking downstairs, already ready to go. She stood up, enjoying how the ocean blue color shimmered when it caught the light.

She had a wrap but didn't think she would need it; it wasn't too cold in the evenings, but she really just wanted another excuse to talk to Bessy at the coat check. Margaret looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror one last time before heading downstairs.

"Margaret! You look stunning!" Mr. Bell reached out his hand to help her down the last few stairs. "And you've done something to your hair, I can tell."

"Dixon should get all the credit," Margaret replied, looking up as her mother came down the stairs a moment later. Margaret was struck by just how alike her mother and aunt looked when they were dressed up; her mother so rarely indulged herself with fine things, she thought it made tonight seem more special for all of them. After Dixon took the promised picture, the four of them got into Mr. Bell's car—a snug but not uncomfortable fit—to drive to the Inn.

There were lights hanging in every tree along the driveway. Margaret had only ever seen the Inn from a distance—up close she could make out every charming detail, from the iron hooks on the window shutters to the detailed ceiling of the building's porte-cochere. Through the front door Margaret could see the lobby extended the entire length of the building, and even from where she stood there was a view of the river. They left Mr. Bell to talk to the valet and went inside.

The lobby of the hotel was airy and spacious, with a tall cove ceiling and floors so shiny Margaret almost thought she could see her reflection in them. Mr. Hale got their tickets stamped at a table in the lobby, and Margaret found Bessy standing behind the repurposed concierge desk. When she saw Margaret, Bessy let out the quietest, most professional scream she could manage. "I want to hug you! …But I don't want to wrinkle your dress."

Margaret leaned in to embrace her anyways, pulling back and holding her at arm's length the way her Aunt often did. "I am so glad you're here," Margaret whispered. "I'm nervous about the auction—what if nobody wants to bid on my painting?"

"Then they're fools," Bessy said, grinning to reassure her. "You go explore a little and have fun. If things get too bad, you know right where to find me."

The next group of guests came into the lobby and so Margaret reluctantly left her friend to venture further into the hotel. She walked into the ballroom, taking a glass of punch from the tray of a passing waiter. Sipping her drink, she watched the crowds of people socializing and dancing. She saw her parents on the other side of the room, watching the dance floor. She hoped her mother felt up to dancing; she hadn't at Edith's wedding.

Margaret continued through the ballroom to the next, where the silent auction was already underway. The items were set up on or behind linen-skirted tables, with sheets of paper for people to write their bids on next to each respective piece. There were multiple themed gift-baskets, travel and restaurant vouchers, and several electronics items donated by each of the respective hosting companies. Margaret's painting shared a table with a voucher for a weekend getaway at the Inn.

She had painted from a bird's-eye perspective; even as she looked at the painting Margaret felt like she was in the sky. The ground, far below, was a patchwork of fields and farms. Off in the distance stands of leafy, mature trees broke up the horizon, giving an illusion of even more distance and depth. Further back was a series of dark, sloping hills. And in the cloudless sky there floated several hot-air balloons with bright, patterned hulls that took in the view with her.

She looked down at the bidding sheet, seeing two ID numbers written in the first few lines. Margaret couldn't help the smile that stretched across her face. Two people wanted to buy her artwork! And the auction would carry on for another couple of hours, giving people plenty of time to bid, and Margaret plenty of time to fret.

Not wanting to hover, she moved back into the ballroom, watching groups of people pass by with a dreamy, contented expression. She didn't notice Fanny sneaking up behind her, a camera in her hands.

The flash got her attention, and Fanny crowed, "Gotcha! Now turn towards me, and I'll take a proper one." She took three more pictures, commenting on each one. "Your bracelet is so shiny, it caught the flash…hold on; let me turn that setting off…"

She took one more, smiling earnestly at Margaret. "Look at this one," she said, showing Margaret the camera's screen. "I even got John in the background."

Instead of looking at the picture, Margaret turned around to see John Thornton walking towards them. His tuxedo was black, but he had opted for a gold tie and handkerchief in the front pocket of his jacket. She nodded at him, and he nodded back.

"Hey! Now I can get one of you both together—you kind of match, what with the gold accessories and all—" Fanny took a photo, then turned the camera ninety degrees to take another.

They were standing near one another but barely touching. He looked down at her, smiling conspiratorially. "Would you like to escape?"

She looked up; the camera flashed again.

"Yes."

He took her hand, and with a "Sorry, Fanny," pulled Margaret away, disappearing through the crowds until they were in the center of the room. She was vaguely aware of them stopping, but he kept his hand wrapped around hers. It was only when the band started playing that she realized that they were going to dance—that they were already dancing. Somehow her other hand was on his shoulder and she was suddenly very aware of his hand on her waist.

"I think we're safe now," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Fanny will find someone else to photograph." After a moment, he continued, "Do you like everything?"

"It's wonderful," Margaret answered. "You've all worked very hard, and it shows."

Even if he was cordial to her, and to his sister, Margaret thought she could make out subtle signs of anxiety and stress that gave him away. "There are plenty of people here who don't possess the work ethic you're ascribing to them."

Whether he was talking about event planning or the other corporate executives and their families, Margaret couldn't tell. "I'm trying to learn a little more about how the various businesses in Milton fit together. Nicholas has been teaching me a lot—"

"Nicholas?" He raised one eyebrow, trying not to look too interested.

"Nicholas Higgins—my friend Bessy's father. He works at Hamper's Electronics."

Thornton was frowning; he looked like he was about to say something, but changed his mind. Margaret was concentrating on looking somewhere safe, like the band or the buffet table. Looking at Thornton just made her worry about things, like tripping over her dress or having a hairpin come loose. It wasn't like her. They both continued frowning and avoiding each other's gaze until the song ended, the band finishing their most recent set.

He slowly let go of her hand and they walked away from the center of the dance floor. "Your painting is one of the better things up for sale," he said after a moment. "The auction committee thanks you for being so generous."

"It's not 'my' painting any longer—it has two bids, so it will have a new home in another hour." A moment later, one of the other executives, one Margaret didn't recognize, pulled Thornton away to ask some question about his business. Margaret wandered around the ballroom for several more minutes before Fanny came up to her, another girl their age beside her. Margaret couldn't see a camera; Fanny must have put it away.

"Margaret, meet Anne Latimer! She's only just come back from—where was it again?"

Anne waved hello, the stacked bracelets on her arm jingling together. "Upstate New York."

"Well, that's about as far away from Milton as you can get! Except for you, of course…"

Fanny continued to talk, hardly giving either of them a moment to respond. When they mentioned getting something to eat Margaret excused herself, heading to the lobby to find Bessy. She was at the counter, organizing the remaining claim tickets.

"Your timing is great! I was just about to take my break," Bessy said when she saw her. "How about we go for a walk outside? You look like you could use some fresh air."

They walked across the lobby towards a set of doors leading to the outside terrace. It stretched the full length of the hotel, and although it was dark outside, tall lamps helped illuminate their path. They could see the moon reflected in the river below.

"Well? How are you finding your first Milton gala?" Bessy asked. They passed by one of the windows and looked into the ballroom for a moment before continuing on. "Is the food good? Dance with anyone yet?"

Margaret couldn't get the song the band had been playing out of her head. "People keep asking me that—if I like the party, what I think of everything. My opinion really isn't that—"

"Sh!" Bessy stepped around the pool of lamplight, pulling Margaret off the main path. "What is Slickson doing out here?" They stopped behind a tall box hedge, Bessy leaning over to whisper in Margaret's ear. "If something's got them spooked, of course they're going to talk about it tonight—they're all here at the gala!"

Slickson was pacing from one side of the terrace to the other. Margaret recognized him as the man who had asked Thornton about something after their dance.

He stopped as someone else approached them—a second, taller man in a tuxedo. Margaret was glad, at least, that it wasn't Thornton.

"Is it true, Hamper?" Slickson asked in a nervous, fervent whisper. "The government is involved—audits, investigation?" The second man, Hamper, nodded slowly. "Dear God."

"We've lost one contract already," Hamper was saying. "This scandal hardly matters if they're discontinuing every model we manufacture. I should just close it all, burn and salt everything."

"We've been trying to help you!" Slickson was gesturing as he spoke, his cuff links glinting in the light. "You won't take any of us down with you. Come on," he said, motioning for Hamper to follow him back inside. "The party is starting to wind down. We should say goodbye to our guests."

From their position behind the hedge, Margaret could barely make out Bessy, crouched low with her ear turned towards the building. When Margaret touched her shoulder, she flinched, looking up with a startled expression. "Father works at Hamper's," she whispered.

"Come on," Margaret urged, pulling her up. "If the party is ending we need to get back, too. They will be missing us."

Leaving Bessy at the coat check station, she continued on through the ballroom, going against the main flow of traffic leaving the auction area. She had missed the end of the bidding. When Margaret made it to the table where her item was listed, she saw only an empty easel, the painting already gone. She looked down at the bidding sheet, seeing several more numbers listed—some of them from the same few bidders. Whoever bidder number 130 was, they had already left with their prize.

Margaret turned to go back and find her family, ready to leave with the rest of the crowds. She couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that she had missed her chance to meet the person who ended up buying her artwork.

* * *

A/N:

1. The painting of hot air balloons in the sky is inspired by a scene in the Disney theme park ride Soarin' over California. It's one of my favorite Disney rides, that scene especially is pretty spectacular.

2. The main reason Margaret is reading about Monet—beside the art connection—is that a certain someone starred as Monet in a miniseries. I haven't seen it though; I only know what Wikipedia knows xD

3. A grand thank-you parade to my beta, My Misguided Fairytale, for your work on this chapter.

4. Thank you for reading and please review, I value and treasure each one. Massive thanks and appreciation to everyone for following along so far, I hope to get the next chapter out soon!


	5. Line and Letter

Sorry this chapter is a little shorter, I wanted to get something out before I left—I'll be out of town for the next week or so, and will not be able to work on the story or reply to reviews. Thanks in advance for your understanding and patience!

* * *

**East & West**

* * *

Chapter Five: Line and Letter

"_We see the storm on the horizon and draw in our sails. But because we don't explain our reasons, they won't believe we're acting reasonably. We must give them line and letter for the way we choose to spend or save our money."_

* * *

Things were quieting down after the weekend gala—Mr. Bell had gone back to his home in Cambridge, and Margaret's family had gone back to their sort-of routine: she would visit Bessy and Nicholas and her father would spend hours at the library, even after it closed, talking with Thornton. She didn't often see them around Milton when she was running her errands, preferring to go to the store early in the morning, so it was a surprise when Margaret ran into Fanny at the grocery store one day. Fanny was carrying a basket primarily filled with salad toppings, which she kept swinging around on each arm.

"Margaret! Maybe you can help me!"

"I'd be happy to, if I can…" Margaret begun, a little nervous at the look on Fanny's face.

They started walking to the other end of the aisle; Fanny would occasionally stop to pick something up and set it back down on the shelves. "I am determined to see the ocean before the end of the summer, and I've been trying to plan a day-trip but mother refuses to have anything to do with it. John _could_ drive us, but he doesn't want to, so I need help convincing him! I promised Anne that we could go to the beach next Saturday, but if you don't help me then I'll have to break my promise—"

They turned the corner, where John Thornton was standing in front of a display of seasonal fruits. He inspected an orange before putting it into his own basket. Fanny ran up to him. "John! If Margaret comes along, then would you drive? Then maybe you'd finally get an opportunity to relax, and mother wouldn't have a conniption about us all leaving Milton, even only for a day…"

Fanny continued on, barely paying either of them any attention. Thornton looked like he found very little relaxing about the prospect of such a trip. He turned to Margaret, saying, "Do you really want to go?"

"It would be nice to see more of the area…and I could bring some of my supplies, I'm sure the view of the ocean would make a great painting," she said. "But I have plans to meet with my friend Bessy that day."

"She can come too!" Fanny said, turning to her brother. "We can fit five people in the Lexus, and if having more people come along means we're able to go, then the more the merrier, right?" She swung her grocery basket back-and-forth at her side, going up to a row of salad dressing bottles farther down the aisle.

Margaret looked at the siblings, shifting her own grocery basket uncomfortably. "So… you like cherries," Thornton said suddenly.

"Sorry?"

"Your basket has two bags of cherries in it." He motioned to her basket; the red cherries were tucked next to a box of pasta and several cans of vegetables. She shifted the basket again, surprised that he had noticed.

"My mother likes them—cherries are her favorite fruit."

He nodded, watching as Fanny disappeared around the end of the aisle. "What should I tell Bessy?" Margaret continued. "Will we be gone the entire day?"

"Yes, I'd plan to leave around nine in the morning, and we probably wouldn't get back until after dinner."

"Thank you," she said, "for offering to drive everyone. Fanny seems very happy. Well…I'll see you on Saturday, then." When they heard Fanny calling for her brother from the next aisle over, Thornton left to go after her. Margaret stood in the aisle for a few moments, trying to remember what else was in his grocery basket besides the orange. It was hard to imagine him eating the same bacon bits and raspberry vinaigrette Fanny seemed so enthused over, and she always thought one could tell a lot about a person by what they put into their cart, but she couldn't remember enough to put this theory to the test.

And that was how, a week later, Margaret found herself at the gates of Marlborough-Tech early Saturday morning. Bessy was beside her; they each carried bags stuffed full of art supplies, towels, sunscreen, and snacks. Every now and then Bessy would yawn into her hand, sighing. "I can't believe you're not going to swim," she said in-between yawns.

"I'd rather paint the water then get in it," Margaret answered, adjusting the straps of her tote bag. "You don't think this is going to be too awkward, is it? We don't know any of them too well, and you've only just left M-Tech—"

Bessy was grinning at her. "Yesterday was my last day, and somehow I'm back here…this is all your fault. Anyway," she said, pushing her sunglasses back up along the bridge of her nose, "Oh, of course it's going to be awkward. But I've made up my mind about it—I am determined to have fun, even if it kills me."

The front door of the old gray house opened up and Fanny ran down the stairs, heading towards them. She was carrying a small fabric backpack and had a pair of hot pink sunglasses perched on her head. "Hey!" she shouted, waving to them. "Oh, and there's Anne! John is pulling the car around—the garage backs out onto another street."

A moment later the sleek black Lexus turned the corner, stopping just short of the gates. Fanny claimed shotgun, tossing her backpack into the open front seat. After stowing their things in the trunk, the remaining three climbed into the backseat. Margaret was in the middle; she strapped in and closed up the air conditioning vent halfway so it wasn't blasting cold air right on her legs.

The car pulled away and headed down New Street. It was still early, and there were hardly any other cars on the road. "All right!" Fanny said, waving goodbye to the Milton city sign as they passed it. "We're officially on our way! Now all we need is some road-trip music."

Thornton sighed, changing lanes. "Driver picks the music, Fanny."

"We are _not_ listening to the news."

It was not as bad as Bessy and Margaret had thought it would be. For the first hour, it was very quiet—occasionally one of them would yawn or sneeze, and every now and then Bessy pointed out things to Margaret that they passed by. Then suddenly, music started playing from the car's stereo, and in the passenger seat Fanny crowed, pumping her fist. She waved the silver-colored iPod in her other hand.

"I finally got it to work!" She said, turning around a little in her seat to look at everyone. "The cord connects my device to the car's sound system. I saw it on an infomercial and had to have it. I've got to have the latest gadgets."

The ice was broken—or maybe, they were all just starting to wake up, but conversation seemed to flow a lot easier after that. Even Anne joined in occasionally, when it turned out that one of her favorite designers had been a client at Margaret's aunt's business. It wasn't long before the billboards and signs started to advertise for beach attractions. And every now and then, the bay would come into view, trees giving way to rocks and stones and finally, the blue water, rippling gently as far out as they could see. Margaret thought it looked incredibly refreshing.

They left the highway, the road now bordered on both sides by shops, restaurants, and hotels. "Okay, we're looking for Old Silver Beach!" Fanny said, looking back out the window. "Call out the sign when you see it."

They drove for several minutes, the traffic much thicker as they got closer to the water. "There, on the right." Anne pointed out the sign, and they turned, heading down the road. There was a half-full parking lot on one side of the street, stairs leading down towards a crescent-shaped strip of sandy beach. John parked and they all got out, stretching and grabbing their bags.

"Where's he going?" Margaret lifted her tote bag out of the trunk, making sure nothing had fallen out during the drive.

"John's getting a parking pass," Fanny said, shrugging. "I think he wants to set us up with an umbrella and chairs, too—it was his one stipulation for coming along. Someplace where he can sit and answer his emails. He's got to be trying not to have any fun, seriously."

They staked their claim on a blue umbrella with several reclining chairs grouped underneath it. Thornon immediately sat down in one of them and Fanny, rolling her eyes, suggested they walk along the beach.

There were quite a few families there already, and they dodged several groups of children, walking down until the waves came in gently around their ankles. In some places the sand was speckled with pebbles and shells, but for the most part, it was smooth and white.

When they split up Margaret gathered her supplies, laying her own towel out farther down the beach. It was less crowded, not ideal for swimming, but she liked the way the land swelled up to one side of the crescent, almost like a lagoon. She could see several boats off in the distance.

She had brought a set of pastels, not wanting to go to the trouble with brushes and paints. She had used a set of claw-clips to attach some thick paper to a piece of cardboard taken from one of their old boxes. She sketched out the main elements of the picture—the divide between land and sea, the horizon, the large rocks that jutted out of the coastline farther down. Margaret was starting to lay the color down, a light blue stick in her hand, when Bessy came up and laid her towel out beside Margaret.

She tied back her wet hair, leaning back to look at both the water and the picture. "You're missing out," she said, watching the waves. Several minutes later she turned her head, looking at Margaret with a strange expression. "Did you see her, when we were leaving? Mrs. Thornton was looking out of the window, watching us. It was creepy. What, did she think that we were going to abduct her children or something?"

"I don't think she understands that we might want to seek out places other than Milton," Margaret replied, brushing her hair out of her face. A light blue spot was left behind on her temple, her fingers covered with colored dust. "But she yields to her son, and he yields to his sister."

Bessy pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Mary only does what I say half the time—I don't think there's a real hierarchy there. I suppose you're at the top of your family, being an only child and all?"

Margaret smiled a little, and added in a deeper blue at the edges of the paper. "I have a brother. Frederick."

"Really?" Bessy sat up, now interested more in Margaret than the ocean. "Does he live back in California? Visits only on Christmas, that sort of thing?"

"I haven't seen him in years," Margaret said. There was a way that she looked at the horizon, like she could find him at the edge of it, if she just looked hard enough. Like at any moment, a boat would come in, and she would see him at the helm, home-bound. "He always wanted to travel—he left several years ago, meaning to travel up and down the continent. Fred fell in love with a woman he met in Mexico, they married and he has a son."

"How romantic," Bessy said, smiling. "And you're an aunt!"

"Every now and then we get a letter, but my parents don't like to talk about him very much—it hurt them both, especially my mother, to not know that their only son had gotten married. I think they do want to see him again, they just don't know how to let him in after so long."

She started blending out the colors of the picture, adding a touch of highlight over the waves from where the sun would strike them.

"Maybe that's what he's waiting for," Bessy said, laying back down and closing her eyes. "A sign that he's welcome again. Maybe he already knows that he is, but we second-guess ourselves all the time…"

After a few minutes Margaret leaned over to pick up another of the pastels. She looked over to see that Bessy had fallen asleep.

* * *

Margaret was just starting to put her supplies away when Fanny came up to the umbrella, searching for sunscreen. "This is great! If I lived on the beach, I would go swimming every day. John, you haven't even put your feet in the water yet. Come on," she said, dotting lotion on her face and shoulders, "You can't have that much still to do."

"You're wrong about that, Fanny," he replied, not looking up from his phone. "Unless you'd rather have us go the way of Hamper's."

She frowned, turning to the other person there with renewed hope. "What about you, Margaret?"

"I want to finish putting everything away…"

Fanny got up, tossing the sunscreen bottle down into the sand. "I'm going to swim some more with Anne. You're both sticks-in-the-mud."

Margaret had finished packing up her box of pastels. She looked down at her hands, and the smudges of blue and white pigments on every finger. "She has a point. You need to take a break every now and then, or you'll burn out."

Thornton looked up, his expression unreadable. Margaret continued, "It's good business sense, right?"

There it was, the barest hint of a smile. He couldn't argue against that. He followed her down to the water, and they stood for a moment, looking out at the ocean. Margaret rinsed her hands when the waves came in, rubbing them to make sure there wasn't any more lingering pastel chalk on her fingers. They started walking, feet dragging through the water or sinking into the wet sand.

"What's going to happen to Hamper's business?" She didn't want to pry, but she knew that even if he didn't say much, everything he told her would be completely honest.

They kept walking, occasionally weaving around groups of kids playing in the sand. Every now and then he would lightly touch the pocket where he had put his phone, as if to reassure himself it was still there. "Hamper's is finished," he said. "Once they finish their outstanding orders, everything is getting shut down. The workers have thirty days, give or take—the other executives don't know how this is going to affect us, they're hoping to wait it out."

"And what do you think?"

He stopped, looking at her seriously. "I think people are going to become enemies, far more than they could ever become friends. If I refuse someone work, it's because I'm a monster—they don't know that I am unwilling to take someone else on at the expense of the workers I already have. Do you understand me?"

"I think I do," Margaret said, "but shouldn't you be saying these things to the workers? They deserve to know. Then they won't think of you as a monster."

"I don't care what they think," Thornton said, turning towards her. "You… …you've got a blue mark, here." He motioned towards his forehead. She rubbed at her face, missing the spot by several inches. "Stand still, I'll get it."

He bent down, dipping one hand into the water. He gently smoothed away the spots of blue pastel that remained on Margaret's temple and hairline. "There." His hand lingered for just a second before he drew back. He could see Bessy coming out from their umbrella, looking for them.

* * *

They found a place near the beach to eat dinner, Fanny adamant that Margaret and Anne needed to eat some real New England seafood before their trip could be complete. Then, they left the ocean behind, Fanny commandeering the radio as they pulled away. It started to get a little darker, and even though they had left, Margaret still had the sound of the waves crashing in going through her mind. She closed her eyes, imagining a beautiful sunset.

All of a sudden Fanny sat up straight, looking curiously at her brother. "Is the football game still happening this year?"

Anne stirred; beside her Margaret was also starting to fall asleep. "What football game?"

"Every Labor Day weekend, workers from Hamper's Electronics and M-Tech face off on the football field," Fanny said. She chose a new song from her iPod, bobbing her head in time to the music. "Hamper's has won more often—"

"—But we beat them last year," her brother interrupted.

"I'm getting to that! Anyways, can they field a team this year? If the company is closing, would they even want to?"

"They want to," Bessy said. She had barely said a word during the drive back, happy to listen and lend her shoulder as a pillow for Margaret. "They're seeing it as a matter of pride."

Thornton merged onto the highway. "I thought so."

Every now and then the lights from a passing car would overtake them, but being inside the car felt like being in a cocoon; everything outside seemed muffled and far away. Every now and then Thornton's eyes flickered to the mirror. He could see Margaret shifting her head on Bessy's shoulder, sound asleep. He wondered what she was dreaming about.

* * *

A/N:

Thank you to everyone for reading, reviewing, fave-ing, and following along to the story so far! This is officially my most-followed story to date, which is so cool. :) I love knowing that people are enjoying the story and keeping up with each new chapter. Let me know what you thought about this one!

Old Silver Beach is a real place in Massachusetts, although since this is a work of fiction, I've taken a few liberties with it (for example, it is closed on weekends). Cambridge, where Mr. Bell lives, is of course the location of Harvard University.

On Frederick: he has given me so much grief in figuring out how to work him into the narrative, and we haven't even seen him yet! No navy, just a strong network of in-laws and a bit of a black sheep mentality (I have tried outlining everything from illegal border-crossing to a falling-in with a Corsican vendetta), and I don't want to jump through endless hoops trying to justify Fred. This is Margaret's story, not his. He will still bring plenty of trouble with him, though.

Thank you so much to My Misguided Fairytale for her incredible beta work as always :D

So there you have it! A bit of local flavor and sun, and pastels do really make some great seascapes :) Expect the next chapter in about two weeks, as I am not taking my computer with me when I'm gone!


	6. The Cloud Never Comes

And I'm back!

* * *

**East & West**

* * *

Chapter Six: The Cloud Never Comes

"_But the cloud never comes in that quarter of the horizon from which we watch for it."_

* * *

_Two Years Ago_

To call their place in the Hollywood Hills a 'house' was disingenuous at best, but all the same Mrs. Shaw welcomed their guests with a smile to "our little house party." She was not a passive hostess, pressing drinks into people's hands and pouncing on any guest if they showed any signs of unhappiness or, heaven forbid, boredom.

"Come on, Henry. You could at least pretend to look like you want to be here," Captain Lennox said to his brother as they walked through the foyer into the courtyard beyond. "Who knows? This party could be the making of you."

The mansion was done in a Spanish Mission style, with rooms opening up to a wide, airy courtyard. The party was already in full swing, crowds of people neither of them had met moving from room to room, chatting and dancing and admiring the decorations. They had even managed to fit a DJ booth against one corner.

"Yeah, I'm sure I could find plenty of rich ladies in the market for a lawyer—but I'm not one yet. There's still time, I could fail all my exams…and then what?" Henry pushed past a group of people, following behind him.

The Captain shrugged. "Professional party guest?" He laughed, motioning to the wide, expansive view from the backyard. "Just trying to lower the _bar_ a little, if you know what I mean."

Suddenly his face brightened, and he pulled Henry through the crowd, heading towards two people standing closer to the house. "Edith! I found you! And I brought Henry, as promised."

Edith gave him a sunny smile. "It's so nice to meet you. I'm Edith, and this is my cousin, Margaret. This party is in her honor."

At her side, Margaret was fidgeting. "I wouldn't say that. I only know about half of the people here."

Edith had been slowly inching towards Captain Lennox, and it wasn't long before they were standing together, her arm threaded around his. With a pointed look at Henry, she said, "That's what parties are for, Margaret, to meet new people." When a new song started playing they dashed away and were gone into the crowd a moment later.

They stood near each other for almost a full minute, neither saying anything. When they spoke, it was at the same time:

"Can I get you a drink?"

"So why did they throw you this party?"

She was laughing and after a moment he joined in. They each grabbed a glass of punch from the drink station inside and found a place to overlook the courtyard. "It's a going-away party," Margaret said after a few minutes. "I'm going back to Helstone in a few days to start my senior year at the University there."

"What's your major?"

"Studio Art." She sipped at her drink, smiling over her glass at his expression. "Don't give me that look! The Captain said you were in some stuffy law program."

Henry tried to frown but found that he couldn't. "He would say something like that. I deal with risk, but I know something about rewards as well. Will you tell me what you find so rewarding about your art?"

An hour later Edith came up, looking for her cousin. She saw Margaret in one corner of the living room, talking with Henry. The glass in her hand was mostly full; she was hardly letting him get a word in.

"I've already gotten permission from my advisor—it's why I'm going back early. Helstone itself makes the most perfect subject for my project. I've been learning about the history of a place through its art, and you can see how depictions of the school and the town have changed over time, and how the artist can sway people's opinions on how they choose to portray a place. If you love something, your art will show that. I could never make Helstone look ugly."

"You said that love will come through, in any subject?" Henry looked thoughtful.

"Well, any emotion strong enough. If I hated a place, I would see mostly its faults, and they would translate to the paper."

"A strong 'if,'" he said, taking another sip of his drink. "I'm not sure you could really hate something so much. But then again, we've only just met—there's got to be something. Let me guess. Maybe you hate parties."

Edith chose that moment to break in, taking Margaret's glass and finishing the contents herself. "There you are! Come with me, both of you. There's cake, and I saved you the slice with your name written on it."

* * *

Margaret was sitting in the living room of the Crampton House, looking at the large painting on the wall, the one with the yellow roses. Her mother was sitting on the couch, knitting a maroon-colored scarf and humming softly to herself.

Margaret smiled at her. "We're going to be rolling in scarves by the time winter comes."

"I'm going to start on hats when I'm finished with this one," she answered. It struck Margaret then, looking at the thin wrists and bony fingers deftly working the knitting needles, just how frail her mother was. When she was Margaret's age, she would have been slender, and Margaret saw a shadow of that when her mother had dressed up for the gala. But now, with the way she shivered occasionally even on these late-summer days, it seemed to Margaret that as time passed and the freezing temperatures came, she would get worse, not better. She could have every scarf, if it would help her even a little.

She had said goodbye to Bessy Higgins that morning. For the past week Margaret had been helping her pack, having become something of an expert of it from their move to Milton. Mary was trying to stay cheerful when Nicholas had finished loading everything into the bed of his truck, but her lips were quivering and Margaret had seen her duck into the kitchen for tissues at least twice.

Bessy hugged Margaret, whispering into her ear, "I'll miss you so much. You'll keep an eye out on my father and Mary, won't you?"

"I will. I'll call and email you all the time, and you'll have to tell me how you're doing, too."

Nicholas had changed his hat to a baseball cap with the college's logo on it. He got into the driver's seat, and after hugging Mary, Bessy jumped up into the other side. They kept waving as the truck pulled away, turned the corner, and disappeared from sight.

"Margaret?"

Her mother had resumed her knitting, the sound of the needles clinking together jolting Margaret out of her reveries. "Hmmm…?"

"I was just thinking about the holiday tomorrow. The library will be closed for labor day, so I was wondering if we wanted to cook something special for dinner."

She brightened at the idea. It would be nice to have her father home for the entire day. "I can run to the store now, and see what looks good." She left the house, walking towards the store and then, impulsively, passed it. She said to herself that there was still plenty of time for shopping, that she could get to it on the way back. There was something about wandering around Milton that she liked, even though most of the time her feet led her past the library or the parks that bordered Marlborough Tech. Today, she made a conscious effort to avoid the familiar and continued down past the main streets, on a tree-lined avenue that was, oddly enough, completely full of traffic. There was a sound in the distance she couldn't identify.

Several cars had their windows down, blasting music, and as the street curved and the far-off noise grew louder she realized she was near the high school.

There were groups of people—mostly men, she could see no children—clustered around the paved walkways leading towards the stadium, and every now and then a cheer rose up from the stands. There was music, too, barely able to compete with the crowd, and when a man passed her with a scrolled letter H on his shirt she finally put the pieces together. Margaret could almost laugh at herself, she had forgotten all about the football game. She hadn't thought about it since Fanny had mentioned it on their way back from the beach. She had been busy with other things, and it had completely slipped her mind.

The football field was sunken into a hillside, so as she followed the stragglers towards the stadium she was able to look down into the bleachers. She searched for familiar faces and found none on her first glance; everyone was wearing sunglasses and hats, and there was no way of knowing who they were just from looking at their backs.

She glanced across the stands again and thought she saw Fanny—there was a woman wearing a brightly-colored sundress down in the front row. Margaret made her way down, apologizing when someone stepped out in front of her path or brushed against her, hardly even aware that she was there. The current play ended and the crowd began to boo, the sea of voices shouting invectives against the referee and the other team. Most of the men around her were tall, wearing the same stylized H for Hamper's, and assuredly drunk.

"Fanny!" she shouted, darting through the last of the crowd and sighing with relief when Fanny turned at the sound of her name. Thank God it was her; Margaret wasn't sure she could easily make her way back up and out of the stands.

Fanny reached out her hand and clasped Margaret's tightly. Her palms were sweaty, and leaning closer Margaret could see beads of sweat at her temples, and the wisps of hair around her ears that had escaped her updo were damp with it. It was very hot outside, but Margaret had never seen her like this. "Margaret! Come over here, or the crowd will swallow you up!"

Beside her was Mrs. Thornton, who had traded her suit jacket for a lavender-colored blouse. "So you've come," she said, her voice calm and even. They had been sitting down, but got up when Margaret had come over.

"What's going on?" Margaret could now see the field clearly. The two teams facing off were each wearing makeshift jerseys in the color of their uniforms, a light taupe color for Hamper's and a darker color for Thornton's men. From where she was standing she could see their faces—determined, passionate, and angry. She saw a man in a dark shirt attempt a play, only to be jumped on by several of the other players. There was danger in their disregard, fueled by the crowd and the opportunity to disguise violence as sport.

Fanny pulled her close, whispering in her ear so the crowds around them couldn't overhear. "I don't have to tell you that we're losing—but I think they're trying to hurt us. Just look at them! I saw a man get tackled, and I swear he got the wind knocked out of him. And they can't exactly run away, or call the game—the whole place would riot. They have to stay there, and take the punches, and we have to watch it happen."

Margaret looked down the aisle, past Mrs. Thornton. "Where's John?"

"He's gone to get some water. I feel like we're all going to die of heatstroke out here—there he is!" Fanny waved him over. Thornton was carrying three water bottles; without thinking he offered his to Margaret, who refused it.

"I'm sorry you've come," he said, looking gravely at the field as another play ended in a heap of Hamper's players on top of a single Marlborough man. Margaret saw red hair, and a flicker of recognition passed through her. "In four days these men will all be out of work, and many of them are ones I've refused to take on. I expect they think if they knock a couple of heads together, there will be a space for one of their own."

Hamper's men took possession of the football; from the way the others stood huddled together it was apparent to everyone that they were afraid to stand in their way. Margaret couldn't blame them. No one would willingly choose to get tackled, knocked down—and men whom, several months prior, were their friends and colleagues! She leaned against the railing, suddenly feeling the heat.

"How long has this game been going on?"

Thornton answered her. "They're in the fourth quarter. It won't go on for much longer."

Fanny had been sipping her water, tugging on the neckline of her dress as if she could use it as some kind of fan, when suddenly her eyes closed and she fainted, falling back towards her mother. Mrs. Thornton caught her, her hands firmly grasping Fanny's limp arms.

The three of them crowded around Fanny. Margaret picked up her water bottle where it had fallen on the ground, rescuing it before much more had spilled. She smoothed some of Fanny's hair back away from her face, and they shifted her so most of her weight was resting on the bench.

"She skipped breakfast," Mrs. Thornton was saying, her voice disapproving even as she cradled Fanny's head in her lap. "So senseless, she should be inside…"

"Then take her inside when she wakes up," Thornton replied. Their attention was completely taken away from the game, and when Fanny started to come to after a few more minutes, she blinked up at them, weakly lifting one arm in an attempt to shield her eyes from the sun.

Fanny looked at first like she was attempting a dramatic pose, but gave up, sighing, "I don't feel very nice."

They propped her up, asking if she could walk, if they needed to call for the doctor—Doctor Donaldson was in the crowd somewhere, on call just in case something were to happen to one of the players—but Fanny shrugged them off and, supported by Mrs. Thornton, slowly made her way out of the stands. After a moment Margaret couldn't see them anymore. She turned to Thornton, unsure of what to say to him, wondering if she should have gone with Fanny. It had honestly spooked her, seeing Fanny's legs just give out like that.

"I hope Fanny will be all right," she said. "…Are these games always so eventful?"

If Thornton was feeling the heat, he didn't show it. "Once, it started raining halfway through the match. Last year, the celebrations went on twice as long as the game ever did. Looking back on it, the Golden Dragon being right across the street from Hamper's made it a poor choice of location, but—"

Gasps rippled through the crowd like a wave; Margaret whipped her head back towards the field to see a man lying on the ground, his arms clutched against his body. She had no idea how he had been injured, and Hamper's men retreated back into a tight huddle on the sidelines. The man's back was to them, but she recognized him by his bright red hair. "Oh no! It's Boucher!"

Thornton briefly looked at Margaret, wondering how she knew him. A man had gone from the stands down to the field, moving quickly to Boucher's side. With the help of two of his team-mates, they lifted him up and helped him off of the field, heading slowly towards a bench close to the bleachers where Thornton was standing. Boucher was limping, his jaw clenched tight to keep from crying out.

Thornton leaned over the railing to watch as Dr. Donaldson gingerly felt along Boucher's left leg and ankle. "Not a fracture, but a sprain—you're lucky it's not worse."

Boucher gritted his teeth. "I don't feel lucky."

They got to work wrapping his ankle, one of the other players scooping ice from a cooler into a small bag. "You're not going back out there," Dr. Donaldson said to him, his voice low and soothing, "and you need to stay off that leg as much as possible—get right to bed, and stack a few pillows to rest your ankle on."

The stillness of the crowd at the moment he had become injured was starting to break; snatches of conversation and movement were resuming and on the sidelines, the two teams looked back and forth at each other, for once unsure.

The men on Thornton's team were looking at him with an expression that took him a beat longer to recognize than the others around them. Finally one of the players came forward. "We're one man short now, sir," he said.

It sounded like an apology, and in a way it was. There was no one left to send in. He knew that if his mother were there, she'd take on the entire crowd twice over rather than see him in the line of scrimmage. And the way the other team was listening on, with a keen sudden interest, made him as uneasy as ever.

There was movement to his right; Margaret had stood up to see what was going on. "What's going to happen now?" she asked, wincing slightly at the sight of Boucher's swollen ankle. They were preparing to get him off of the field—the heat wasn't doing him any good either. "Will the game end early?"

They were losing, by two touchdowns, but he hardly cared about that now. They had been dragging this out for long enough. "That's one possibility," he said, intentionally keeping his voice very low and calm. If he wasn't on the field, he would have to answer to the crowd—they had come here, joined together in this oppressive, sticky heat, and were expecting to see things finished.

She looked down—one of the players was offering Thornton a spare jersey—and her eyes widened, understanding. "You must go down. It's your team, after all…Hamper has been a part of his own team, and you must do the same. What will everyone think if you refuse now? And Boucher will have been injured for nothing." Her eyes were shining brightly, everything else around her forgotten, and Thornton couldn't help but think that the only times when she was entirely focused on him was when she was arguing, scolding, or criticizing him. "You must go down to them."

The reasons why he would rather battle it out with the crowd were numerous—they wouldn't hurt him, they wouldn't even throw their drinks at him because it was so hot outside; Hamper played in college and knew exactly what he was doing; if he was injured, his mother would no doubt give him something even worse—but he couldn't bear Margaret looking at him like that a moment longer and wordlessly took the jersey. He made his way past part of the crowd towards the stairs leading down to the field, feeling every set of eyes on his back, hearing the whispers they thought were concealed. He was worth sitting in the sun for, they were saying. Now it was a real match.

He chanced a look back at Margaret—he had thought he heard her voice, but it must have been his mind playing tricks on him. She was chewing her lip, looking worried about something. In a moment he had slipped on the jersey and stepped out onto the grass. Not far from him, the other members of his team were grouped together, talking about their next play. Two of Hamper's men were tossing the football back and forth, joking about something.

The sun was very bright and he was forced to squint as he looked out into the stands again; he didn't like doing it, he thought it made him look hesitant. Thornton was in the middle of turning back and joining his group when he felt a hand on his arm.

Margaret was there, standing next to him. "I think this is a mistake," she said. "It's just a game, and no one else should get hurt—and if there really are only a few minutes left, surely no one would mind if the game was called early?"

It was about the worst possible time for a change of heart. "It's a little late for that. You should go back to your seat—my mother or Fanny may be looking for you. I have a duty to my team, as you had reminded me before."

She shifted her feet on the grass but didn't walk away. "Is there anything I could say to change your mind?"

There was no reason for her to come all this way, to continue delaying the game, unless…but he wouldn't think of her worrying over him, however pleasant of a picture it made. He was already on the field, and would play as best as he could. He didn't like the way the crowd was looking at him now—barely disguised impatience, as if he was a coward, afraid of becoming injured like Boucher. It was like in those minutes they forgot everything they knew about him.

"Please, Margaret, go back—"

The sun was in his eyes, and he didn't quite understand what was happening but all of a sudden Margaret flung herself in front of him. She reached her arms up—to try and push him aside, to shield him, to protect her own face— and by the time he saw the football, it was already colliding with the side of her head. There was an awful thud, the worst sound he had ever heard, and she fell to the ground, landing on her side before he could reach for her.

The crowd had gone absolutely silent. He bent down, first to check her pulse—she was so pale, he had immediately thought the worst—and another to gently feel at the side of her head, to check for any bleeding or bruising.

He looked over at the teams. Hamper's men had closed their ranks; he didn't know who had thrown the football. When he spoke, his voice was strained. "The game is over. Someone needs to bring the doctor back here, right now."

Sound rippled out through the crowd as they found their voices again. Cradling her head and neck in one hand he lifted her up, carrying her off of the field. She wasn't heavy but her limbs were completely still, her head resting against his chest. If only she could hear his heartbeat. A thousand things had flashed through his mind the instant she had gotten struck, and it seemed with every step the thoughts on his mind zippered and merged until only one thing remained, whole and unquestionable. He spoke as quietly as a breath.

"Margaret, you'll be the death of me."

He laid her out on the same bench where they had first put Boucher, and he took off the spare jersey, folding it in quarters for a makeshift pillow. The crowd was starting to disperse, some sticking around to watch what was still happening on the field, some—the families of the players—coming onto the field to talk to them, some leaving, to celebrate their win elsewhere.

Fanny came running up, remarkably energetic for someone who had only just fainted earlier in the afternoon. "Is she dead?" she asked. "She looks dead."

Mrs. Thornton was not far behind her. She had been surveying the scene as she walked to them, catching pieces of conversation from the people she passed, and already had a good idea of what had happened. During the entire match she hadn't looked bothered or overheated at all—she had simply set her mouth in a thin, firm line, as if she could overpower the sun itself through sheer force of will—but now, her hands were clenched at her sides, a tense frown on her face. He asked her to find Dr. Donaldson and bring him over, and she left to search for him.

Thornton took one more look at Margaret—she still wasn't coming to—and went to speak to Hamper. He would have to congratulate him on his victory.

* * *

There was something damp on her forehead. The bench she was lying on was made of metal, and very cold against the skin of her legs and arms. It felt nice and refreshing. Then she blinked her eyes, and pain lanced across her temples, throbbing more than the worst migraine.

"Margaret!"

She could hear Fanny's voice, and when she tried again to open her eyes, she could see Fanny leaning over her, adjusting the cold compress on her forehead. "Do you know who I am? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Fanny, I'm fine," Margaret said. The only things she wanted were some ibuprofen and to get out of the sun—and to get home, and to go to bed. "Is the game over?"

"Oh, it's over," Fanny said, leaning in towards her. "You took a football to the face and then everyone went home. I was expecting something out of a hockey match, where everyone just starts fighting each other, but nope."

Margaret's face screwed up into a strange expression—she could be laughing, if her head didn't hurt so much. "I was trying to catch the ball."

Before Fanny could say anything, Dr. Donaldson came up to them. He spent a few minutes examining Margaret, looking at her eyes and the makings of a bruise at her temple. He sighed, studying his patient. "It looks worse than it actually is," he said, helping her to stand up so he could check her balance. "How do you feel? Any dizziness? Do you remember what happened before you got hit?"

"I feel fine," she answered, looking around the field; there was still a fair amount of activity around them. Groups of people were still on the field and in the stands, and she could hear the residual noise from the surrounding traffic and the cars leaving the parking lot. "I just want to go home."

"And you will!" Dr. Donaldson cheerfully patted her shoulder. "If anything changes—you start throwing up, things get worse at all—give me a call right away. Otherwise, I'm prescribing plenty of rest. Don't strain yourself, and don't get in the way of any more footballs."

He looked at his watch, smiling thoughtfully. "Did you walk here? I can drive you back… it wouldn't be any trouble, I'm going by Crampton anyways."

When he turned to leave, Margaret went with him.

* * *

A/N:

1. Thanks so much for your patience, besides my travel time this chapter especially took a long time to write and edit. I have the next two chapters outlined so hopefully they won't take as long to finish and post! Let me know what you thought about this one, I hope it was worth the wait!

2. I'm indebted to my beta My Misguided Fairytale for her great work on this chapter. Thank you!


	7. He Would Love Her

Thank you all for being so patient. Here is the next chapter, please enjoy!

* * *

**East & West**

* * *

Chapter Seven: He Would Love Her

"_Not five minutes after, the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did love her, that he had loved her, that he would love her."_

* * *

If Margaret thought it was strange that Dr. Donaldson knew the neighborhood that she lived in she didn't say anything about it—she supposed this was the way small towns were, and with her head hurting so much she was happy to sit and wait to be home. She had given him the address when she first got into the car, and now, as their little house came into view, Margaret thanked him, glad to be back.

She went inside and closed the door behind her as Dr. Donaldson drove away. She could hear her mother's voice upstairs, talking to her father. Margaret snuck into the kitchen, glad to have the space to herself as she rummaged through the cabinets for medicine and water. She had wrapped up one of her father's ice packs—he'd often bring his lunch to the library instead of coming home—holding the towel-covered square against her head when Dixon came in, calling, "so what did you pick up at the store today, Margaret?"

Dixon stopped when she saw Margaret; she had turned away and was trying to hide the ice pack, but there was no hiding the bruise creeping out from the hairline of her temple. Dixon sighed, her eyes momentarily flicking upwards at the sound of creaking floorboards upstairs. "Do I have to call anyone's parents?" she asked, lips pursed. "You'd better let me have a look at it, Margaret."

Dixon's room was small, and plainly decorated—there were photographs of their family on one wall, and a small painting of yellow roses on another—and Dixon ushered Margaret in, closing the door behind them. They both sat on the bed, where Dixon carefully brushed aside Margaret's hair, assessing the injury with expert eyes.

"I remember when Frederick was always getting into scrapes," she said, letting the hair fall back into place. "A week wouldn't go by without some new badge of honor." A beat slower, and more hesitant, she continued, "Do you want to tell me about this?"

Her head throbbed, and it was hard to think of anything else but the game. If she closed her eyes, it was still there, as fresh as if it had just happened, over and over again. She remembered the smell of the grass, and the feeling of coming-to, feeling cradled and comfortable, before she opened her eyes again. She didn't want her parents to know—they would worry, unnecessarily so, and it wasn't a serious blow by any means. All the same, she figured people would talk about the game, about how it ended, and she didn't want Dixon to mistake rumors for fact. If she got the truth from Margaret herself, she could shut down any exaggerations when she heard them from others.

"It's nothing, Dixon—I got caught by a football, that's all. There was a game today, between the men of Hamper's and Marlborough-Tech. But… I was going to do the grocery shopping after the game, and I had forgotten all about it until you came in."

"I can do that," Dixon said. She handed the ice pack back to Margaret, patting her hand when she took it. "You get some rest. I'll call you when it's time for dinner."

In her own room, Margaret lay down and closed her eyes. She was down on the field again, feeling the grass underneath her feet. The stares of the crowd were making her anxious in a way that she'd never felt before, and right before she fell asleep Margaret remembered getting hit, and sinking down. She could see John's eyes. Why did he look so frightened?

* * *

As the Hales were sitting down to dinner, a different scene was taking place at the house in Marlborough-Tech. In the other room, Fanny was playing the opening chords of a lullaby on the piano, humming the melody as she played. John Thornton and his mother were still seated at the dining table, several pages of memos and graphs on the table between them. Thornton had pushed his plate away, having eaten just enough of his meal for his mother not to be suspicious. With the way he had felt all day, he could not possibly eat any more.

Fanny struck out a few chords, sighing, "Tomorrow is a holiday, but I'll bet that you both will spend the day cooped up inside, working. How boring."

Thornton didn't look up from his paper. "Now that Hamper's is out of business, we need to know how this is going to affect our own orders. People must know that Milton is still a place for successful trade and business."

"I might go for a walk tomorrow," Fanny was saying. She kicked her feet, occasionally pressing the pedals even though the score didn't call for them. "Then again, I am still feeling quite…faint, after my own fainting this afternoon. Not like anyone noticed, or cared to ask after me, though. Maybe I'll stay inside and work on my scales all day."

"Then you'll be inside and working too."

Fanny gave her brother a look. "It's not work," she said, frowning as if it tainted her art. She resumed playing, her fingers hovering elegantly over the keys. "It's…an accomplishment."

Mrs. Thornton was making notes in the margins of her paper. Her handwriting was small and even, and she continued writing, making several bullet points down the side of the page. "You're trying to reason with her."

"Hmm?"

"And you've had the strangest expressions on your face all evening. Really, John, what's gotten into you?"

He was frowning now, deciding what to say and how to say it, but found that he just couldn't do it. He'd always considered himself an honest man, unashamed to say frankly what was on his mind, but this…this was completely different. Thornton rubbed at his forehead, hoping the numbers in front of him would come into better focus. He couldn't concentrate on anything else; his thoughts kept going back to her. This was exhausting, and it hadn't even been one day.

Mrs. Thornton was still talking; in the other room Fanny had closed up the piano and gone upstairs. "…It's as if you were the one who got hit on the head. John, you were so careless today, going down like that. At least the game was ended—I'm grateful for that, if nothing else. Now I can call Margaret Hale hard-headed, in addition to having a spine—"

"Mother."

"I still don't like her, or her family, but I almost could after hearing how she shielded you like that. I didn't think she liked any of us, either, but something must have changed."

"_Mother_."

"It's a common enough thing…when a prideful, haughty person puts someone else above that pride—there wasn't a thought for her own appearance, and she'll have a bruise to remind herself of it for days—

Thornton got up from the table, pushing the chair back in. It squeaked across the wooden floor, and finally Mrs. Thornton looked up at him. "Since when do you care so much about them?"

He rested his arms on the back of the chair. This was miserable. He almost wished Margaret Hale had never come to Milton, if she were the catalyst that set all this in motion. "…Do you really think that? That she was shielding me? …I couldn't believe it."

Mrs. Thornton looked like she was about to say something, but when she looked up at him the words failed to come out. She wasn't one for passionate, dramatic speeches, not even when she was young, but her heart did ache to see him like this. "Don't be afraid—if anyone can be good enough for you, it's the person that you choose," she finally said. "I do think she was shielding you."

"You're usually right about everything," he answered, turning his face away from her. They were always the strong ones, they had always had to be, and he hated feeling so weak. At the same time, he relished it—the pleasure that came with the tight, clenched feeling in his chest. But he would tell her, if only to have a reprieve from this pain. He had to tell her. He could never keep something like this from her. Leaving his mother in the dining room, Thornton went upstairs. He had to think about what to do next.

* * *

Margaret took the stairs two at a time, enjoying the loud creaking sounds of the stair treads as she came down. She poked her head into the kitchen, where Dixon was sliding a tray into the oven. "Have you seen your father?" Dixon asked, setting the timer on the oven. "Your mother said he stepped out a minute ago—to the library, I think?—and he hasn't come back yet. You'd better go and get him, Margaret, or he's going to miss our special lunch."

It was a windy day, and Margaret's hair whipped around her face as she closed the door behind her. She didn't want to pull her hair back—it made a suitable mask for the bruise on her temple—because she felt that, without it, the people she passed on the street would see the mark before they saw the person, or the ones who recognized her from the game would meet her, impressions fully-formed and immutable, before they even spoke a word to one another.

She turned the corner, seeing the library building ahead of her. The flowers in the window-boxes were starting to wilt, and soon the leaves on the trees would follow as autumn came in. Because of the holiday, she knew that the building would normally be closed—her father would be the only person there. Margaret opened the door and stepped inside, expecting to see him sitting there at the front desk.

The lobby was empty. But someone was there—she could hear the faintest tapping noise coming from deeper into the building. Margaret followed the sound to its source, going around a row of bookshelves to find John Thornton there, lifting up a large canvas and setting it into place on the long, blank wall.

His task finished, Thornton turned around to find the last person he ever expected to see, staring back at him. At first he thought he was imagining it—that his mind was playing more tricks on him, but here she was, and Thornton wasn't ready. He had been planning on bringing Margaret to the library in a day or two, when he had mustered up enough courage to go through with it; for every scenario in his mind where she ran to him, admitted her feelings were the same or even deeper than his, there was a dark streak in the setting that changed to one where she scorned him, laughed at him, convinced him that what she saw in him was always how he feared himself to be. Before he could think the words were out of his mouth. "What are you doing here? I mean, Margaret… why are you here?"

Despite how he was silently cursing his luck, Margaret thought that he looked even more sullen than usual—and yet it almost made him look guilty, the way he blocked the painting with his body. For a moment she was speechless, and just stared at it. She never thought she'd see that canvas again.

"That's the painting I made for the charity auction."

"It is." That feeling was back in full force, the one that she always brought out in him—that his shoelaces were undone, or the buttons of his shirt mismatched. He resisted the urge to check behind him, to see if the painting was crooked.

"You bought it."

She hadn't meant it to, but it sounded like an accusation. Margaret didn't think it meant that much to her, but all the same her feelings were a little hurt—that she had spent hours imagining the fate of her work, only to find it had been with him all along. It was here for over a month and no one had told her… not him, not her father. Did he not agree that she deserved to know?

Thornton hesitated, saying, "It was going to be a surprise."

"It still is." She watched him gather up his supplies—a hammer, and the plastic packaging of a portrait-hanging kit—and place them on an open shelf of the closest bookcase.

He was closer to her now, close enough to see the edges of the bruise hidden by her hair. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "After the game yesterday… I never got the chance to thank you…"

"I'm fine," Margaret said. "Really, you don't have anything to be thankful for."

"Yes, I do." Thornton was frowning, thinking. If he had taken the hit, if, heaven forbid, he had been knocked out…he would have lost face far more than from Margaret being struck. It had dissolved the tension between them, painted Hamper's men as the instigators and then by default his own side was in the right. Margaret was stuck in the middle of it, but she wasn't the type to give in to gossip or rumors. It was something he admired about her and her family. "I would not have been able to live with myself if your injury was more severe."

She leaned slightly away from him, as if to leave and was reminded of the first time they had met, here in the library. "You don't have to carry on like that, out of whatever sense of obligation you may feel—"

"It wasn't out of obligation! Margaret," he said, suddenly taking her hand, "You were knocked out, it looked very serious, and then I realized how much you mean to me…" It was too late to stop now, or even slow down. The words came rushing out like water, with nothing to contain them. "I want to be with you."

There. He said it. There was no running away from this anymore.

"I've never felt this way about anyone before—Margaret, you're not like anyone else I've ever met. It scares me, how much I like you," he admitted, looking up from where their hands were still linked to her face, searching her expression. She had gone very still, blinking up at him doubtfully. He could very well have been speaking another language, for all she believed what she was hearing.

"You're not serious. You can't be serious." She knew him too well to believe that he could joke about something like this, but she had to say something. He still hadn't let go of her hand.

"And I've been hoping, since the game, that you feel the same way—and then when you protected me like that—"

"Wait! Stop." She pulled her hand loose from his, stretching her fingers slightly. "I wasn't trying to protect you. You couldn't see the ball, so I was trying to catch it. If it had been anyone else with me, I would have done the same thing."

He frowned, a disbelieving look to match hers. "You came down after me."

"Because it was my fault that you were on the field in the first place! I goaded you into going down there so I felt responsible—I'm only sorry that we remember such different accounts of the same events."

She resisted the impulse to apologize to him again. He looked hurt, lost—but also angry, in a way that she didn't understand. She was still trying to process everything he had said to her so far. She was getting nowhere; her mind was shutting it all out. She didn't want to hear about his feelings, about his evidence of hers where there was none.

"But what about the painting?"

"What?" She frowned, looking back and forth at him and the canvas on the wall. "That painting?"

"You made it for me," he argued, feeling the hopelessness of his claim even as he said it. "The landscape, the hot-air balloons…"

Margaret moved away from him, further towards the middle of the room. She had to get away—she suddenly wanted to be outside. "You thought I painted that to get you to notice me? John, do you even know me at all?"

It was so outside the realm of plausibility that Margaret almost wanted to laugh. She stared at him bitterly, angry at how this cheapened her work for the charity auction, angry at how he presumed to know her so well and still read her so wrong. She felt confused and far from home.

She took a deep breath and continued, "Nothing I've ever done was to get your attention. Despite what your mother boasts, there is at least one woman in Milton who doesn't care for you at all."

Their voices had echoed through the library, but when he spoke, it was very quiet. "That's… how you feel?"

"It's how I've always felt. I don't like you. I've never thought about you that way, and that's not likely to change."

If she thought the room was stifling, it was a thousand times worse for Thornton—everywhere he looked was a memory of her: the chair, where she had sketched his portrait, the reference books she had consulted for her art, the history of Milton she had checked out twice. He had to get out. He didn't even care how absurd it was, that he was being driven out of his own building. She haunted it, and he had to get away. "I don't think my feelings are likely to change either."

With that, he left, his feet softly sounding against the floorboards until the door swung shut behind him and he was gone. Margaret stood there for a moment before sinking into the closest chair. She looked at the painting in front of her and tried, unsuccessfully, not to cry.

* * *

A/N:

Thank you to everyone for reading, reviewing, fave-ing, and following! It really is the kick I need to keep on writing, and it really means a lot to know people are looking forward to each chapter. I should be caught up on the signed-in replies now. I have some great things planned, so please stay tuned!

Thanks again to my beta, My Misguided Fairytale, for your work on this chapter.


End file.
